


Warmth

by bumbleholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, JUST, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Beta Read, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Parentlock, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, WIP, at the end, but a lot of fluff and angst, i guess?, i still hate bbc, i wrote this to keep my head grounded, not a whole lot of parentlock tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 20,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9723731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumbleholmes/pseuds/bumbleholmes
Summary: Warmth spread through Sherlock, spilling from his heart and bleeding to the very tips of his fingers. It was a feeling he got very often now, between being around John nearly all the time and caring for Rosie; but the name for it had been lost, buried under shame, guilt, and grief.+John moves back to 221b with Rosie, and (mostly) everything is soft and gentle and warm.





	1. Slow

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to show your support and give feedback! I will post each chapter as quickly as possible.

_**I** _

 

The shift happened slowly. John fell asleep on the sofa in the middle of a stubborn case, Rosie nestled neatly against his chest. Sherlock, amidst evidence files and several troubling web pages, only noticed when John's snores began to fill the otherwise-silent flat. 

His chest rose and fell smoothly, right hand brushing the wood floor, left resting on the soft curve of Rosie’s back, mouth open just slightly, a mirror of his daughter’s expression.

Warmth spread through Sherlock, spilling from his heart and bleeding to the very tips of his fingers. It was a feeling he got very often now, between being around John nearly all the time and caring for Rosie; but the name for it had been lost, buried under shame, guilt, and grief. 

He watched the two for several long, peaceful moments, the edge of the case fading away and exhaustion setting in. It was the first time John had slept in the flat since the Sherrinford business had settled; with the excuse of Rosie and not wanting to wake Mrs. Hudson, John would leave in the evening, after forcing both Sherlock and Rosie to eat dinner. It was fine. Good.

But seeing him asleep, relaxed and comfortable on the sofa of 221B, made Sherlock wonder if this had been what he'd missed most - not having someone to discuss serial beheadings with. 

Hazily, he stood, setting aside the autopsy file. A blanket rested on the back of the sofa, wrinkled slightly from being sat against. He leaned over the two and took the blanket carefully, draping it over John’s legs and up to Rosie’s shoulders. 

It was oddly alien, both being able to witness such a tender moment and notably promoting it. When John awoke, he would see the blanket, and know that Sherlock had not simply walked away without any feeling other than annoyance, but supported him with his mistake and cared for him in a rather humanly manner.

Six years ago, this would have bothered Sherlock. But now, he slept better than he had in months, knowing that John and Rosie were close by and warm.


	2. Untouched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My bed is still there.”  
> The words clung to the warm air, heavy with unspoken thoughts and something deeper. John’s bed. Untouched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely forgot I even published the first chapter of this! Thank you for reading it, and I apologise for the wait-time.

**_II_ **

 

John began to fall asleep at the flat more often after that, at least once a week, until a late Tuesday morning in early spring. 

London was warmer than it had been since the year before, pulling people out of their flats and into rays of warm sunlight. The entire city seemed light and eager, having woken from a long and oddly wet winter. When John arrived, Rosie strapped to his chest, even his steps were lighter than they had been in months. Sherlock noticed this immediately, but tried not to overthink it, forcing himself to scroll through emails.

“Hey,” John said, excitement making his eyes sparkle. “Did you see the case Lestrade sent you?” He gently undid Rosie and set her down between their chairs, attempting to busy her with a rattle. She had just turned two, and quickly outgrowing her old baby toys. The rattle was barely a pass-time.

“Yes, solved it in ten minutes,” Sherlock replied without looking over at the two. “Brother, accompanied by a cousin who happened to be in town. Easy, really, if they just looked at the mir-” He was cut off by Rosie throwing the rattle back at her father, giving an amused pout. 

“No rattle, then?” John sighed, setting the toy aside. He stood, beginning to lift up cushions and pillows around the living room. “If they just looked at the mirrors, you were saying?” He urged Sherlock over Rosie’s annoyed babbles. 

“Yes, the mirrors. Smudges, erased notes - even I could see them in the photos,” he scoffed, standing to scoop up Rosie and give her a smile. “You’re getting terribly big, aren’t you?” He murmured, holding her close and playing with her soft blond curls. She grinned back, reaching up to tug at his own curls.

“Even I know that was obvious,” said John, now searching the desk. “Rosie needs new toys. She’s practically worn out her old ones, with this teething stuff.” 

Sherlock hummed his agreement back absently. Rosie was fascinated with one, tight curl just behind his ear, and kept tugging at it, watching it bounce back up. 

“Listen. Sherlock - “ John sighed, running his fingers through his greying hair. Just in the past few months, he’s aged considerably, but it didn’t look bad at all; his smile-lines had deepened and grey increased, but Sherlock thought it suited him rather well, making his smiles even bigger and brighter, his hair and stubble sparkle in the light - it was like this now, the morning’s light streaming into the flat and catching on the soft, richly-coloured hair. 

Lost in thought, Sherlock blinked, realising he’d been spoken to, and Rosie had tugged at a different curl, more amusement breaking out across her bright blue eyes. “Sorry, what?”

He expected John to be slightly impatient, from the slight panic that had blossomed in his voice, but that wasn’t the case at all. A tender warmth eased from his gaze, making Sherlock’s heart skip a beat, and his lips were parted just slightly against a gentle smile. It was as if he’d read the detective’s thoughts and wished to make everything more golden, give it with that wonderful feeling that only John could leave behind. “Have you seen Rosie’s doll?” 

The question was there again, and despite his racing heart and wonder, Sherlock could answer. “I think Mrs. Hudson took a few things upstairs,” he answered.

John nodded once, then was gone, hesitating for half a second before trotting up the stairs, almost lighter than he had been when he’d arrived. 

Sherlock was left with Rosie and a racing heart, but managed to sit down on the sofa, fixing her curls and bouncing her gently on his lap, which eased some of the nerves.

“Papa!” She giggled, holding tightly onto his thumbs and beaming up at him. He grinned back, waving her arms in the air.

“Found it,” John said as he came back down, smiling triumphantly and kneeling down next to them. “Rosie, look…” Upon seeing the doll, she squealed excitedly, taking it and laughing as she squeezed it to her chest.

Sherlock couldn’t stop smiling, keeping her steady on his lap as she embraced the toy. But - of course, couldn’t resist, and began chewing on a cloth arm. This got an affectionate sigh from John, and he reached up to brush back her curls. Contentment seemed to settle in all three as silence took over the flat, the sounds from the street - dogs barking, a car honking, hopeful voices - floated up into their domesticity. It was like this for quite some time, quiet and soft, until John spoke, voice barely above a whisper.

“My bed is still there.”

The words clung to the warm air, heavy with unspoken thoughts and something deeper.  _ John’s bed _ .  _ Untouched. _

Sucking in a breath, Sherlock glanced away before countering, “I haven’t had a reason to touch it, have I?” Mrs. Hudson stored things up there, maybe the sheets were washed and put away, or maybe everything was completely preserved down to the outline of the man who had once slept there after adrenaline-filled nights and boring days at the surgery.

“Well, you know, you could’ve made a lab or something out of it,” John laughed, looking up at Sherlock with those same wide, hopeful eyes Rosie had. A smile broke across Sherlock’s face, and he laughed, out of relief and adoration for the doctor.

“Then where would you sleep?” The words came toppling over his lips, carried by a wave of adrenaline. Sherlock's cheeks flushed, and he looked away, fussing with a button on Rosie’s jumper.

The air was heavy, stark compared to the hazy happiness that had filled the flat moments before. Expecting scold, or to have the warmth pulled away, Sherlock kept his gaze down. 

Nothing came for several long moments. John's hand remained steady on Rosie’s back. The only sounds came from the streets and sloppy gnawing from the little girl.

“Sorry, I -” Sherlock said, unsure if it would be enough to heal the wound he had opened. _ It was a joke. _

“Sherlock.” John's voice was gentle, so sweetly so it drew the detective’s head up, allowing him to see that John was not upset at all, but amused and - something else, softer, kinder -  _ adoring _ . Heat rushed into Sherlock's cheeks and chest, but he didn't dare look away. 

“It's fine,” John finally said. He opened his mouth again, as if to add something, but he closed it again a moment later and simply smiled, standing to taking Rosie up in his arms. “You know, if - if it's open, it might be nice, to have it for - well, erm… late cases.” They hadn't discussed John's sleeping on the sofa beyond the morning questions of ‘Sleep well?’ and ‘Tea?’.

With it out in the open, Sherlock felt horribly vulnerable, thinking of the nights he'd draped a blanket over them, pressing his lips to the top of Rosie’s head; he'd been so close to John then, could feel the heat radiating from his jumper. Did John know what he was thinking? How he'd savoured those moments and held them closer to his heart than anything else - besides the two people at hand, of course?

He was getting caught up in his thoughts, and John didn't rush him, simply stood, bouncing Rosie idly as she played with her doll, giving both of them worried looks. 

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed suddenly, voice hoarse and high with disuse. He cleared his throat and added, “It's open, of course. For you.”

John smiled. Truly, honestly smiled, and it made Sherlock do the same, attempting to hold back a huge grin when Rosie intervened. 

“For you!” She repeated, holding up the doll to Sherlock, eyes full of hope and kindness. 

He took it with a laugh, holding it close to his chest, ignoring the damp spot it created on his shirt. He'd had worse things on him since Rosie had become part of his life.

“Thank you, dear,” he said, pressing a kiss to her curls. “Very kind of you.”

They spent the rest of the day in Regent's park, feeding ducks and petting dogs and rolling a ball back and forth along the grass. Mrs. Hudson greeted them with biscuits and tea, then made them all sandwiches for a quick dinner.

In between tea and dinner she must've heard the news and made up John's bed, or maybe Mycroft had something to do with it, but John padded upstairs at 8:30 after biscuits and crap telly, taking Rosie with him. She was all too happy to explore a new room, and Sherlock listened to their footsteps die down as he played the violin - a piece he knew Rosie loved.

At nine, he put the instrument down and closed his music, carefully trotting down to his own bedroom.

John awoke early the next morning, ready to start the day by making eggs and tea for all three of them. They laughed over Rosie giving John a jam-moustache and Sherlock attempting to explain atomic numbers to her.

The flat had never been happier, and John didn't spend another night outside of it. 


	3. Imprint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John living back at home meant cases could continue to be investigated throughout the day, leading to late nights and lots of takeaway. Until John started to cook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! Your support keeps me going!

**_III_ **

 

Shifting from seeing John only around lunchtime to nearly all day was remarkably easy. Little things appeared around the flat while Sherlock was sleeping or at the morgue, including John’s caduceus mug and Rosie’s playthings. 

John living back at home meant cases could continue to be investigated throughout the day, leading to late nights and lots of takeaway. Until John started to cook.

It started with pasta. Penne, he'd said, with meat sauce. Sherlock had noticed the change in smell immediately upon arriving home from meeting with Lestrade.

“Hey,” John greeted, smiling at Sherlock quickly before returning to the stove. “It's almost ready. Could you get some plates and silverware for us?”

The air was heavy with the smell of the warm sauce, and Sherlock pressed a quick kiss to the top of Rosie’s head before pulling out a plastic bowl, two plates, and silverware for the three of them - Rosie’s favourite Winnie the Pooh fork included. 

They hadn't eaten at the table together since John had moved back in, but he didn't want to seem distant, so he pushed some of his lab equipment aside and set the plates out with their corresponding silverware. Rosie was watching him curiously, grinning when she saw her fork, picking it up and giggling, “Pooh!”

Sherlock chuckled, ruffling her hair. Even after a stressful day at the morgue, she remained consistently happy, always managing to bring a smile to anyone's face. 

Turning around, he peeked into the pot John was bent over. It looked absolutely marvellous, and Sherlock's stomach - the damn thing - made a loud gurgling noise.

John looked up at him with a grin, unable to hold back a laugh. His deepened smile lines made it look even warmer. Sherlock's heart fluttered, cheeks flushing with heat from embarrassment and that feeling only John could stir in him.

“Hungry, hm?” The doctor asked, a hint of teasing underlying his affectionate tone. “Good thing, too, because it just needs one last pinch of salt…” He eyed the spice cabinet behind Sherlock, but didn't ask him to move, simply placing a gentle hand on the small of his back - which made Sherlock's face even hotter and his insides flutter - to take the shaker and sprinkle a dash into the pasta.

Sherlock blinked, realising John's hand was long gone, despite the warm imprint the simple touch had left through his shirt. He turned away as the stove was turned off, plopping down at the table and trying to force his thoughts away.

It'd been almost too easy, to bury them under cases and takeaway, even the business of caring for a child; but even he knew love didn't stop for logic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this was so terribly short, I'll upload the next chapter right after.


	4. Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was on a case like this, with lots of running, that Sherlock finally told John to hold back his criticism. The streets were thick with fog, subduing the orange glow from the street lamps and making the night even more difficult to manoeuvre through. Sherlock, thankfully, knew where they were, and had a good guess at where the culprit was heading - an old winery.

**_IV_ **

 

John continued to cook after that, although it was usually only once a week, and he constantly picked at the little details, like the lack of salt, the slight-dryness of the rice, or even the consistency of the canned sauce. 

Sherlock wouldn't have this. He wished for John to go easier on himself - after all, he was raising a child and caring for the biggest baby of the millennium on top of running after criminals through London.

It was on a case like this, with lots of running, that Sherlock finally told John to hold back his criticism. 

The streets were thick with fog, subduing the orange glow from the street lamps and making the night even more difficult to manoeuvre through. Sherlock, thankfully, knew where they were, and had a good guess at where the culprit was heading - an old winery.

John had his gun. Sherlock had watched him grab it after handing Rosie over to Mrs. Hudson, and now it was a vital part of the plan unfolding. 

“Winery,” he said, turning a sharp corner. “Double stories; meet me there.”

“On it.” John disappeared down a side street. He'd get there after Sherlock, but with the gun and the detective’s charm it wouldn't matter. 

The winery was broken down, but still held the heavy stench of fermenting alcohol and fruit. The suspect had worked here in the past, and no doubt visited on a regular basis after losing his mother.

“Nowhere else to run,” Sherlock called after him, coming to a stop next to a row of large barrels. “Hand over the documents, Mr. Parker.”

“You - you won't get them!” Parker cried out, breathless and crashing into a stack of crates. Through the darkness, Sherlock could just barely see the tip of his bald head.

“I will,” he replied. “Because that's what your mother would have wanted. Not to have you suffering through this mania on your own. I can help.”

The fast breathing of the two men ceased for a moment, and a floorboard creaked above him - John.

“She… how did you know? About her?” Parker’s voice had softened with exhaustion and vulnerability a great deal. Quite the different man than the one the police had imagined to strangle Xavier Parker Senior.

Sherlock bit back sarcasm, forcing himself to reply gently. “Your mother's portraits were the only thing clean in your flat. She died last summer, didn't she? From cancer?”

Parker sniffed loudly, then pushed aside the fallen crates, stepping out from behind the giant barrels. “Yeah, ovarian.”

Sherlock knew all that; ovarian cancer, June tenth. She had been trapped in the hospital, dying, without proper care due to her husband not paying for any treatment. He'd been cheating on her for nearly a decade.

“You killed your father to avenge her death,” he stated, firm and steady, watching the shadowed form across the warehouse. Another creak from above and the brush of jacket against plaid as a gun was drawn.

Parker’s hand was braced on a wooden chair. Knuckles white, even in the dark factory. “Yeah,” was all he said, gaze trained on the floor, sweat gleaming on his bare head.

“And you blamed it on your sister.” A creak from above; a warning. “You framed her, for leaving your mother and letting her suffer.”

Knuckles grew whiter against dark, split wood. “Well, she deserved it. You should’ve seen the look she gave her - our  _ mother _ , the woman who raised us, gave us everything -”

“She's in prison while you're cowering in a rotting winery.”

“Our mother! Rotting, dying, and no one would help!” Parker’s voice grew heavy and rushed, carrying the hate that had spurred the murder.

“You did very little yourself.”

“Because I have nothing! I had a job, then it got taken, and now - now I have a tiny flat that I can't even pay for, and a madman chasing after me through the night! Who do you think you are, then? The cleverest of them all, because you could see that I hated my arsehole of a father? Prince charming? The hero London needs to stay on its feet?” He was looking up now, moving forward easily as his words carried their weight through the warehouse. “I bet you've got it all. Girlfriend, rich background, great pay - a posh boy thinking he's clever.”

A shift from above. Sherlock could practically feel John's jaw clenching. “You don't know me,” was all Sherlock said in his defense before Parker’s fist left the chair, darting for a plank of wood on the ground. 

“You don't know  _ me _ !” Sherlock stepped back as Parker lunged at him, weapon in hand, hate pouring from his words. He was tackled, shockingly, before there was a gunshot. 

“Fuck -” John's curse rang out as Parker was pulled off of the detective, blood spilling from the fresh wound in his back. The bullet had pierced his shoulder blade and landed in Parker’s heart. “I was aiming for his damn liver, but he kept moving - I’m sorry, Sherlock…” John was on the ground floor, limping slightly from the impact of the quick fall. Parker’s groans filled the thick air, but John ignored him, kneeling down next to his friend as he searched for any injury. 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said uselessly as he attempted to sit up. Bruises were forming beneath the tender skin at the base of his back already.already at the base of his back, where his tailbone had collided with the cement. John must've seen him wince, because his searching for injury got more insistent, prodding at his arms and sides. “Tailbone, but it's nothing, John…”

“No,” he replied, moving around to gently press his fingers against the bone. Sherlock hissed. “Christ, this is my fault… we need an ambulance, Sherlock, call one -”

“It's not - it's not your fault.” Sherlock's words began to blur together as adrenaline fell away, leaving behind clouded, hazy thoughts that were poisoned by the pain. 

“Yes, it is. I couldn't get a good aim, even when I had a perfect opportunity before he went and did  _ this  _ to you…” John trailed off, digging into his jacket pocket to retrieve his mobile. An ambulance would be here in just a few minutes with painkillers and a gurney to take Parker (who had quieted down) away. “It could be broken, and it's my fault.”

Sherlock's heart clenched. John was blaming all of this on himself, as if he couldn't have defended himself, or kept his provoking comments away; he could see the sincere concern beneath soldier-like focus in those tender eyes. That same feeling of warmth flooded his chest as he admired John's eyes, his precise wording of the situation to the operator, the soft stubble forming on his jaw. 

Sherlock, lost in the curve of John's nose, found himself very nearly leaning into the man, lips parted but not dry, cheeks slightly flushed from more than exertion. “It's not your fault,” he said before John could even put his mobile away. “You were brilliant.”

Compliments were common between them, but usually it was John who delivered them, and rarely in warm, intimate moments such as these; usually, following the endearment with a joke would bring smiles to their faces, and life would go on. This felt drastically different..

John was clearly stunned, but didn't lean away, didn't even stumble over his reply, “Thank you, Sherlock.” He was as steady as always, sure of what was to be done - and right then, it was tending to a dying murderer until an ambulance arrived.

Before standing, John's fingers momentarily grasped Sherlock's; it must have been for reassurance and comfort, but it still made the detective’s heart flutter and the skin of his fingertips tingle. The warmth in his chest didn't ease until he was back at home, asleep. Even under the influence of exhaustion, his heart thrived with the knowledge of John understanding that he was  _ brilliant  _ and this wasn't ever going to be his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate your support so much! Thank you all.


	5. Heal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s everlasting presence in the flat kept a blanket of comfort between the harsh winter exterior of the busy city and the warmth of their familiar home; even though they bickered, that odd, warm feeling never left Sherlock’s chest during those weeks. It intensified when John brought him tea, ruffled his hair, played with Rosie, but he ignored it, keeping it as private as possible and praying there wouldn’t be colour on his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Summer, everyone! I've finally had time to catch up on this - thank you all for your support, and I hope this chapter makes up for the wait.

**_V_ **

 

The healing process of Sherlock’s tailbone was endlessly tedious. As he usually did when overcome with any sort of ailment, he whined at every little thing, demanded constant attention, and ate nothing but the sweets Mrs. Hudson presented to him, despite John’s insistence on soup or eggs. Rosie was perhaps the most frustrated with his persistence to be stubborn; she constantly whined at him to play, attempted to crawl onto his chest, and even began pulling at his hair. 

The days passed like this, tiny disagreements between naps and meals, games of occupying each other, and muffled complaints forced upon innocent sofa cushions. John, while endlessly on-edge with the situation, adjusted to it very well within only a few days. Handling Rosie on one arm and bringing pastries to the dramatised crime scene of a living room, he moved quickly, full of purpose; this, above all, kept Sherlock sane. 

John’s everlasting presence in the flat kept a blanket of comfort between the harsh winter exterior of the busy city and the warmth of their familiar home; even though they bickered, that odd, warm feeling never left Sherlock’s chest during those weeks. It intensified when John brought him tea, ruffled his hair, played with Rosie, but he ignored it, keeping it as private as possible and praying there wouldn’t be colour on his cheeks.

It was a Thursday afternoon when Sherlock truly feared for the feeling’s secrecy. They were low on eggs and sugar, so Mrs. Hudson had taken Rosie in her trolley down to the corner shop, leaving John with space to take a well-earned break. The doctor had just put away the last clean mug as Mrs. Hudson bid her farewells, but continued wiping down the counters and cleaning out the fridge; Sherlock, intent on staying out of the relaxing hour - Mrs. Hudson never left anywhere with Rosie before buying her a dozen pieces of candy - stayed on the sofa, drifting in and out of consciousness, nose pressed against the back cushions.

He listened to the easy sounds of John’s socked-steps on the hard floor, the creaks of the table as he leant over it, and his sigh of disappointment as something hit the bottom of the bin. Several minutes passed like this, and Sherlock fell into a warm state of near-sleep, only awoken by fingers gently brushing through his hair. He knew it to be Rosie - she must have snuck off after returning, full of sugar and wanting to play; then where was John?

Torn between staying put, warm and comfortable, or turning to face Rosie who was bound to still have that adorable duck hat on and welcoming her, he Sherlock remained motionless. Sleep tugged at his mind, drowning each thought as it occurred, and the careful fingers against his scalp only eased him further back into slumber. 

The corner of a blanket tickled his chin, and the fingers in his hair stilled, but the exhaustion kept him put. He could smell mint, tea, and something entirely of its’ own, originating back to that day in late January, so long ago, when only a few small boxes had been brought up to the third floor, and a pillow, a mug, and - ah, yes, the blanket, had taken apart in the main level. John’s blanket. He reached out, curling his fingers around the worn fabric and tugging it tight around his body. A sigh left his lips, lifting a single curl off his temple for just a moment; then something else brushed it aside, leaving his skin exposed to the cold air before meeting a soft, plush warmth, and a wave of that smell of home.

The feeling stayed there for barely eight seconds, leaving just as soon as it had appeared, allowing the curl to resume its’ position. The sound of John’s steps reached his ears again, and the kettle went off. Sherlock’s chest, full of the familiar warmth, tugged him back into a deep slumber.

He dreamt of that feeling, soft and tender, so easily pressed against his temple; he remembered feeling something familiar, on his cheek, years ago - during a period he wished he’d made better choices towards. A flash of red came with that feeling, and the scent of expensive, foreign perfume, but this time was much different. Compelling, familiar, loving, wonderful, and -

“- John.” Sherlock sat upright, blinking against the warm lamplight. The door was open downstairs, footsteps pounding down towards it, and greetings shared over the street noise. As the door shut, he could hear Rosies’ giggles, and Mrs. Hudsons’ talk of the cashier. 

Sherlock, flustered and beyond understanding, stood. He groaned in pain; the last painkillers had worn off in his sleep. Clasping at his back, he shuffled towards the doorway, leaning on the frame. John appeared on the landing, Rosie in one arm, a balloon wrapped around the other, grinning at his laughing daughter as he climbed the second set of stairs. Sherlock, in a frizzy of confusion, nerves, and numb pain, realised at that moment how much Rosie looked like her father; gleaming blue eyes that sparkled with each broad smile, dirty-blonde hair that lacked the dullness of her mother’s and reflected the shine of the doctor’s from all those years ago; but, at the same time, she lacked his caution, his military-grade stature and that gleam of something agonising that had gone but not been forgotten. Perhaps those things came with age and wisdom, but John was not the average man - he had never been, never would be, and most certainly didn’t experience the world like one. He was a phenomena of his own. The doctor stopped short, only two steps away from the entrance, upon realising they were being watched. 

“Sherlock - Christ, why are you up?” Johns’ expression dropped, eyes widening as he rushed over, attempting to guide the man back to the sofa. “You look like you’ve seen a bloody ghost, what happened? Did you hit it wrong?” He let Rosie down on the rug, leaving her with the bright red balloon as he took Sherlock’s arm, pushing him back towards the bruised cushions and blanket.. He eyed his back as he did so, as if expecting bloodshed.

“No, no… I just…” The detective tried explaining, gesturing weakly towards his head, and easing himself sideways back onto the sofa. “Bad dream, is all,” he explained quickly. His mouth was dry, and he didn’t trust his words, but he couldn’t explain what had happened, even to himself. It felt both too physically simple to be a dream, but unexplainably ethereal at the same time.

Rosie babbled from the carpet, tugging at the balloon as John fluffed the pillows beneath Sherlock’s head. “I’d offer to let you sleep in your own bed,” he said with a sigh, “but then you’ll try and conduct some sort of experiment with the pastries I’d give you. Don’t try to argue - I know you, and you’ve done it before.” He shot the other man a glare, but softened it with a sly smile, and ruffled Sherlock’s curls.

“Don’t be dull,” the detective sighed, leaning back into the pillows, “You’ve kept me... sufficiently entertained.” He looked away with the remark, intent on not revealing too much; God only knows what would descend if John found out how much Sherlock enjoyed playing the patient - the teasing would be never-ending.

John, having turned away to check on Rosie, laughed and looked back to Sherlock, eyes glinting with that spark of amusement they held on the rarest occasions. The last time he’d seen that look was years ago, over one of their last small cases before the Fall, when he’d managed to get them kicked out of a filthy Chinese place in Soho by reciting the speech Mycroft had given them on ‘public safety’ in a cruelly theatrical manner. This time was obviously different, however, as there wasn’t a single bottle of wine in sight, and the only wicked eyes to peel at their secrets were those of innocent, lovely Rosie, who was much more intent on the textured ribbon holding the balloon to her wrist. This time, that spark in familiar pools of oceanic turquoise sent the same flood of warmth bleeding through his system, but free from criticism. This time was their own - it was  _ intimate _ .

“‘Sufficiently’?” John repeated back, crossing his arms over his chest. He stepped closer, nudging Sherlock’s thigh with his knee just enough to evoke a shy grin from the detective. “What does that mean, then? I’ve got to try harder?” Whimsical notes clung to his voice, carrying a slight shiver of excitement through the detective, nearly urging him to shoot back a playful snark - but he knew there was more to be had from this.

“Obviously,” he said as easily as he could, brushing his own knee against John’s; the contact held more effort than the last and less grace, but was enough to convey any meaning he had yet to even entertain the possibility of, and seemed to break a wall inside of the doctor, as his smile grew wider, and he chuckled heartily, reaching down to squeeze Sherlock’s calf, fingers sweeping up slightly over his inner knee. Heart pounding, Sherlock didn’t dare move or give into the bodily urge to flinch at the tickle - but as soon as he’d thought of something else to say, John was gone, padding into the kitchen to start the kettle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.


	6. Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rain pounded against the concrete at Sherlock’s feet, his back, the roofs above his head, creating a thrum that vibrated through his sternum with each heaving breath and rushed step. The murderer - whom they’d caught red-handed in his bookstore with a hefty bottle of talcum powder - flung around a dark corner, splashing grit onto the detective’s face, stinging at his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but I have the next one planned out, so it shouldn't be too long of a wait.

**_VI_ **

 

Rain pounded against the concrete at Sherlock’s feet, his back, the roofs above his head, creating a thrum that vibrated through his sternum with each heaving breath and rushed step. The murderer - whom they’d caught red-handed in his bookstore with a hefty bottle of talcum powder - flung around a dark corner, splashing grit onto the detective’s face, stinging at his cheeks. The plan was lost; John was meant to meet them with Lestrade at the old pen shop on Stoke Newington, but they were nearing the opposite end of the street.

Sherlock, breathless and full of adrenaline, didn’t stop. This was the first case he’d been allowed out on since the x-rays came back positively, and he couldn’t waste it, even if it was barely a seven and out-of-reach of the Tube; it were as if he’d been set loose from the binds of illness and tediously dull recovery.

Giddy with the realisation of Newburn trapping himself in a convenient alleyway, Sherlock sped up, blinking away droplets of rain that threatened his sight. The brick walls surrounded them both only a moment apart, and the detective didn’t wait, smacking the talcum powder out of Newburn’s gloved hand, watching it spill onto wet cement. “You stalked them,” he shouted at him over the noise of the downpour, “Then used the information to poison them. Why?”

The bookkeeper sniffed dramatically, coughing downward before answering simply (albeit proudly) with, “Not all stories can be lived through novels and books, Mr. Holmes!” Newburn fell to his knees, coughing onto the puddles that gathered around their feet. Powder coated his dark gloves, illuminated by the flash of a light from around the corner of the alleyway - John had followed.

Sherlock took several steps back, running a shaking hand through his soaked curls. “You’re weak,” he said, barely audible to himself, “They won’t let you die without a confession, you’ll suffer…” the words fell over his lips, poured down with the rain as his voice seemed to cut itself off, fading into a distant memory. Newburn was coughing still, heaving with each passing second. John appeared first in front of the detective, telling him it would be fine, pressing his palm - damp from sweat and the rain - against his cheek, running a tender thumb over his cheek; then he was gone, leaving Sherlock alone again, calling to the flashing blue lights for an ambulance. 

The minutes passed with more and more people arriving, most in uniforms, first strapping Newburn to a gurney and hauling him away, then taking Sherlock’s own pulse, ushering him to an ambulance, and forcing a blanket onto his shoulders. They asked him questions about the chase and the cause, but he said he’d give the details to the DI, who was standing with a team by the alley, presumably cleaning the spilled toxin.

The weather had let up a little, allowing the few street and headlights to illuminate the narrow space, but Sherlock couldn’t spot John. Finally, he turned to someone - forensics team member, going by her gloves - and asked if she’d seen him.

“Short one, blonde? Yeah, he got in the ambulance with Newburn. He your… boyfriend, or something?” Was her reply, accompanied by a clear overlook of Sherlock, and a three-second-long stare at both of his ring fingers. 

“No, worse,” he muttered, standing and handing her the blanket. He tugged his coat collar up, stepping through the crowded group of officials. Lestrade called for him, but he didn’t turn back, powering through the puddles and nurses and police tape to get to the main road in search of a cab. 

John had left him. He felt odd, and not at all how he should have felt after a wonderful crime chase; instead of a high, there was a cloud around his mind, clogging the neurons and tugging at his conscience. Stumbling towards the corner, he managed to catch a cab, and slid into the back, giving the flat’s address in place of the hospital’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your support has kept me going! Thank you all <3


	7. Urgency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Typical, he thought. John always found a way to the moral high ground, saving lives, counting his rescued pulses, succumbing to his doctoring ways, and putting his acutely-soldier-like skills to use in the field of medicine. The heart, pumping to it’s own thrum of ambulance sirens and the smack of latex gloves on skin, rescuing every possible soul in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brief chapter - I hope you enjoy, anyway! Thank you to all who have shown their support <3

**_VII_ **

 

Thunder rolled through the city, pushing people into cafes and tightly-knitted apartments, leaving the streets only full of desperate, splashing steps against cement; standing among it, Sherlock could have felt lost, alienated, but instead he felt as if this moment of loneliness was his own shelter from the storm. The flat waited for him, offering a greeting from Rosie and Mrs. Hudson, a semi-tidy bed, and fresh tea, but his legs wouldn’t move forward, not even an inch towards home -  _ their  _ home.

He felt sick. In the past weeks, he’d been robbed of his strength, but never nauseous, or even shaky, as he felt now, soaked and frozen in the late Autumn rain. It hadn’t rained for quite some time, not since Mrs. Hudson had brought up those orange and lemon scones with the sugar glaze; he remembered the glaze sticking to his fingers, forcing his index fingertip and thumb to cling together, summoning a hearty laugh from John, who had pulled his chair next to the sofa and held a sugar-covered Rosie on his lap. John’s smile lines creased so elegantly in the dawn-like sunlight as rain hummed against the windowpane, and as Sherlock’s cheeks grew warm with his ears, there was very little on his mind besides the affection he had for them.

It was this memory that propelled him forward, practically lunging at the door, breath fogging with each quick exhale. The knob resisted his urgency, and he began digging in his coat for the key, but only felt lint and - oh, yes, a receipt from that God-awful coffee place a block over. A groan rumbled over his lips with a fresh clap of thunder. He’d been so caught up in the case, the idea of getting out, and showing off his bed-ridden brilliance to John and the majority of Scotland Yard; he’d forgotten even the most vital personal effects, relying too heavily on the man that had now abandoned him for an ill murderer.

Typical, he thought. John always found a way to the moral high ground, saving lives, counting his rescued pulses, succumbing to his doctoring ways, and putting his acutely-soldier-like skills to use in the field of medicine. The heart, pumping to it’s own thrum of ambulance sirens and the smack of latex gloves on skin, rescuing every possible soul in sight.

Sherlock kicked the door, grunting as he did so, turning away and tousling his wet hair in frustration. Useless. Pointless. He’d gotten that man hospitalised, at least, and John would be upset about it, about not being more careful, and not getting it right; it’d bother him for days, weeks if Newburn was unable to be saved. He would clang the kettle, clench his jaw, pick at strings on his jumpers, brush his teeth with a little too much urgency -

“Sherlock?” The door had opened, revealing a worried Mrs. Hudson with a flour-covered apron tied loosely around her neck. “What on Earth - Christ, look at you…” she sighed, pulling him inside. Lips pursed, she shut the door behind him, and took a tea towel from her apron’s pocket in an ill attempt to dry his face. “Where’s John? And - oh, did you forget your key? You could’ve just -”

“Obviously,” he muttered, stepping out from her reach and hanging up his coat at the rack. “I’m tired.” His scarf was left on the banister, shoes on the landing, suit jacket on the sofa, and landlady looking both offended and nearly enraged with his briefness at the entryway. Rosie wasn’t in sight, thankfully, leaving him room to slam his bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe there's some tension.


	8. Reflect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For what felt like an eternity, Sherlock had seen his reflection in lost eyes, blurred from suffocation and bloodshot, but now, standing in his kingdom, he saw everything that made him himself; lost, naturally, without the light of life.

**_VIII_ **

 

Alone, there was very little to do, and this fact only frustrated the great detective further, pushing him into a full-blown (as John so  _ delightfully  _ put it) ‘pout’. It only took him two hours to grow tired of analysing the dust samples he took from the curtains and the scrapings from the floorboards, thus he migrated into the kitchen, naturally to the science-riddled table, at first merely taunting the dishes, samples, and liquids with pushes and scoffs, at a loss of interest. He glanced over his shoulder at the empty, darkened living room, which was only lit by the dusky-purple light. 

There was something odd, about seeing the flat like this; empty, both physically and deprived of the heart, the flame that kept the warmth between sips of tea, the cool-grey leather cushions of the sofa, the cold case alibis, between gasping breaths and sweaty sheets, as if there was no other way to be, to live, to  _ thrive  _ in this place. Every fleck of dust, every crumb, every bit of peeling wallpaper - it belonged, not just to Sherlock, but to John and Rosie.

For what felt like an eternity, Sherlock had seen his reflection in lost eyes, blurred from suffocation and bloodshot, but now, standing in his kingdom, he saw everything that made him himself; lost, naturally, without the light of life. That match inside his heart, the sun he revolved around, the brightest spark he’d ever known, was gone, having only abandoned him in what could have been a night of messy takeout, grumbled mentions of paperwork, violin, crap telly, a useless fight over the Union Jack pillow, a bubble bath for Rosie, giggling over comments on the blog, a spilled cup of decaf tea, lemon cakes, fighting off the world from the comfort of their fire-lit living room -  _ them _ .

As if choking on this image, Sherlock gasped, gripping the counter’s edge furiously. His chest seemed to clench in on itself, and with a shuddered breath, he blinked away the tears gathering among his eyelashes, unable to look back at anything besides his still-socked feet. The admission to himself that he more than relied on John, he needed him to breathe, to focus, to keep going as everything he was had come as a shock, all those years ago; but he’d torn himself away, as always, grasping at needles and small comforts to keep him going, to uphold the vow he’d given, from so far away, among the never-ending pink-blue lights of the wedding night. Leaving, had perhaps, been one of the best decisions of his life. His dreams had taunted him with images of the hectic he could arise with a confession, public or not, a panic attack, a meltdown, an outcry for absolute mercy - but he escaped, with little more than a mumbled, “I do,” under Her pristine, ever-so-rehearsed voice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A baby? I think so. (I love you guys, thank you for all the comments <3)


	9. Core

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tremble danced in John’s voice, lining it with uncertainty and desperation. Sherlock, seemingly out of control, couldn’t reply. He’d never seen John that vulnerable. It was as if they’d both drifted from their bodies, becoming only beings of emotion, drifting both further apart and closer together with each passing second as more physicalities fell away, revealing only synapses, breaths, and pulses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to mention, as I think I never did and therefore should, this version of (I suppose my personal) canon does not consist of the beating Sherlock received in season three of BBC's show from John at the hospital. I think that is something that would never, ever happen between ACD's characters, and therefore don't accept it as canon. In no universe would John Watson ever hurt Sherlock Holmes, period.

_**IX** _

 

Sherlock didn’t wake for the front door opening, but did for the steps on the stairs - slow, cautious, but still full of exhaustion. The detective got to his feet, fiddling briefly with his hair to hide how he’d been running his fingers through it, and focused on his microscope, adjusting the slide idly. His back ached with the arched stance, and he realised he’d fallen asleep on the kitchen floor, back flat against the wooden cabinets and sore coccyx pressed to the tile.

Before he could grab the stool from the other side of the bar, the living room door was being pushed open, and John was there, hair unkempt, shirt unbuttoned, and expression full of exhaustion. Sherlock didn’t make a sound, looking quickly back to the sample under the lens. There was no reason to make this a bigger deal than it had already grown to be.

John didn’t see him until he’d hung up his jacket and slipped off his shoes. Subconsciously, Sherlock realised the flat was dark, only lit by a single kitchen light and the orange foglamp from outside; he felt mildly guilty, having arrived home before John and not even turned on another lamp, much less ordered food or flipped on the kettle. A God-awful housewife, he’d make.

“Jesus -” Was the only thing John could seemingly muster upon first seeing the detective bent over his microscope, presumably looking disheveled, exhausted, and rather stone-like underneath the harsh, cold kitchen light. A beat passed without Sherlock looking up, leaving John to prompt him with, “How long have you been here?”

The courage needed for Sherlock to reply bubbled up in his throat, clinging to his vocal cords, clogging his thoughts, and finally coming out as a stammered, “Couple of hours.” He leaned back just enough to look at John, but not meet his eyes; nothing good ever came from looking into those beautiful blue irises.

The doctor’s shirt was stained with just a couple of spots of blood, obviously from Newburn's coughing fits, perhaps from something else - an imprint was still fading from his left wrist, where a latex glove had taken it’s toll, and he smelled of antiseptic; besides the stain, he looked as if he’d returned from a day at the office. Sherlock knew he hadn’t left Newburn’s side.

John didn’t reply immediately, blinking, then looking down at his feet as his hand came to rest on the countertop, easing his weight off his knee. Although it’d been so long since John had experienced any pain in that leg, Sherlock worried if, perhaps, he kept it to himself to avoid the subject. That was a very _John_ thing to do.

“You didn’t go by Lestrade’s.” The accusation rippled through Sherlock’s chest, hitting his ribs, muscle, lungs, then stinging his heart. Of course he hadn’t gone to the Yard. They went together, laughed at the interns and grumbled about the paperwork, then took a cab home, or to a cafe, or Chinese place. Of course he hadn’t gone.

Something, as if formed from the aftermath of the shock, shot through Sherlock, making his fingers tremble as the reached to go through his hair. Vaguely, he remembered the feeling from before his breakdown, and that only made him panic more, driving him to clench at his curls just slightly before spitting back, “You didn’t come home.”

The tremor had spread to his voice, but it was still there, leaving silence in it’s haunting wake. A part of him wanted to sob, to break down there, show the pain he was feeling, just for once, just for one night - to wrap his arms around John, hold onto that burgundy jumper and not let go until John knew how infinitely much he needed him, how much he feared he’d lose him, how much he adored every ounce of care and affection and smile he’d ever received, ever been blessed to experience.

“You don’t mean that.”

Sherlock looked up, finally meeting John’s eyes, which were ringed in red, and appeared glossy, unlike any other look he’d seen in them. At this, his heart seemed to stop, ribs clenching into themselves as if trying to defend any more shocks to his very core. He couldn’t look away.

“You don’t - you can’t mean that. Can you?” A tremble danced in John’s voice, lining it with uncertainty and desperation. Sherlock, seemingly out of control, couldn’t reply. He’d never seen John that vulnerable. It was as if they’d both drifted from their bodies, becoming only beings of emotion, drifting both further apart and closer together with each passing second as more physicalities fell away, revealing bare synapses, breaths, and pulses.

Jaw clenched, John’s posture straightened, but his eyes didn’t leave Sherlock’s until a breath tumbled from his lips. Abandoned, Sherlock was left with a distressed, very real John Watson, and he had no idea what to say. He’d already messed up, hadn’t he? He’d already ruined it, already triggered something beyond his ultimate comprehension, and even without knowledge of anything regarding social encounters, he knew there was no going back. There was nothing else to say. Luckily, he didn’t have to, yet.

“It doesn’t matter,” John finally mumbled. The sentence was barely audible, but still stinging nerves. “I’m going to bed.” A blink, and John was gone, turned away and sleepily-stumbling towards the living room for his coat, where he dug his phone from an inside pocket. Sherlock realised, briefly, this was not how this should end. It wasn’t right.

“It does matter,” he said weakly. His legs ached, and he realised he’d stood, leaving the samples he’d been pretending to focus on in the dust. Despite his own urgency to fix this, whatever this was - a misunderstanding? A fight? An act of desperation? - standing was all he could do. John, coat breast clenched in his hand, didn’t move for several moments. Then, slowly, he straightened, sniffed, and began towards the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hate this bit, but I promise it'll get better, soon :'( Thank you for the comments and kudos, every bit of support keeps me going. I also showed my mother my hits counter yesterday, and she was nearly brought to tears - I think this has been brilliant practice as well as a phenomenal social experience! Thank you, loves.


	10. Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only a moment passed like this, a beat in time where the two stared, as if locking trains of thought, intertwining every regret they had and seamlessly apologising with silence. Sherlock couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, until John was there, standing nearly five inches away, and grasping his shoulder, thumb stroking over his cotton-clad clavicle. A shuddered breath escaped Sherlock’s lips at the contact. Heat spread from that point of contact to his heart, then his lungs, bleeding all the way to his fingertips and cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During writing this, I remembered that noise John made when 'Mary' died and I just absolutely lost it. I couldn't stop laughing, so I'm sorry for the lateness and seemingly lackluster writing :/

**_X_ **

 

A fear hurdled through Sherlock in that moment. Memories of past fights flooded his system, and he remembered the most recent, all those months ago when She died, leaving them to place blame on themselves and bury it underneath layers of guilt and grief. He remembered seeing that ache, that fog over his once-bright, cerulean eyes, the greying bags beneath them, and the lack of that specifically-John charming buzz in his voice, and realised, as he heard the first step creek, he couldn’t let that happen again. He was eternally vowed, by his gratefulness and affection for the man, to do everything in his power to never let John Watson be anything but happy, joyful,  _ elated _ . 

“John, wait -” He stammered, forcing himself from around the counter, just far enough to see the doctor stop, and his shoulders tense beneath his jumper. A moment passed, before a trembling sigh was heard from the stairwell, and John stepped back onto the landing, looking at Sherlock from the doorframe. His eyes, glassy from exhaustion, caught Sherlock’s. 

The detective, frozen in place with his lips still parted and shirt untucked, felt naked, standing there, almost begging for forgiveness, almost sobbing a plea for John to be okay - remembered, vaguely, the feeling of lips against his forehead and the smell of mint, maybe a hint of petrichor, and the light musk certain wooly jumpers eternally held; he’d been vulnerable then, half-asleep and under John’s complete care, just as he was now, standing open and desperate, praying for a sign of forgiveness.

Only a moment passed like this, a beat in time where the two stared, as if locking trains of thought, intertwining every regret they had and seamlessly apologising with silence. Sherlock couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, until John was there, standing nearly five inches away, and grasping his shoulder, thumb stroking over his cotton-clad clavicle. A shuddered breath escaped Sherlock’s lips at the contact. Heat spread from that point of contact to his heart, then his lungs, bleeding all the way to his fingertips and cheeks. 

It wasn’t a surprise, then, that John smiled, heartily. Wrinkles and all, a spark returning to those brilliant, sapphire irises, it was as if that single expression cured them both, sending a healing wave through the time spent apart and negative decisions of the day. Sherlock, lost underneath the sheer wonder of John Watson, couldn’t resist grinning back.

“You’re blushing, Sherlock, you know that?” The comment caught him by surprise, and without a thought reached up to feel his cheek, which was, in fact, very warm. John’s smile widened at that, and his other hand, his left one, his dominant side, reached up to cover Sherlock’s trembling fingers with his own. 

Sherlock’s palm broke out into a sweat, and he worried John would feel it, feel his nerves, feel the panic through a the dampness that ailed his skin and jerk away, but instead he said in a voice barely above a whisper, as if it were a secret, “It’s a bloody good look on you.” Then he was gone, gently pulling away with one last squeeze to his shoulder. 

“John?” The detective’s voice was weak, but he made sure his friend was looking at him before continuing with, “I’m sorry.” It was the only thing he could muster over his thudding heart, and he honestly didn’t know what else to say. He’d been sure they would fight, and he’d lose him for a day or two, but instead, there was a moment of interlocking, of comfort and electricity.

“I am, too,” the doctor replied softly, “We have time to mess up. It’s okay, Sherlock.” He smiled again. Sherlock’s heart didn’t slow at what he assumed should’ve been a calming comment, but instead sped up, rendering him speechless. He nodded just slightly, and offered a smile in return. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments mean the world to me! Thank you guys so much <3


	11. Gilded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock couldn’t move, only think, admire the electricity he felt tickle at his skin, the overwhelming jubilance in his heart, and that tantalizing touch on his cheek. In that moment, he felt both vulnerable and secured between the ironclad stare and blissful closeness.

**_XI_ **

 

As it turned out, John had texted him that the hospital was low on staff, due to the usually-presiding doctor being on holiday, and had been requested to help both as a medical professional and a witness. Sherlock, upon finally seeing the several messages, which also included questions of the detective’s whereabouts and overall feelings, replied at nearly two in the morning with, ‘ _ Got caught up. Will go to Yard tomorrow. - SH _ ’.

And, after a filling breakfast of eggs and scones, he kept his word, trading his silk dressing gown for the freshly-dried Belstaff. As he reached for his scarf, John appeared at his side, grabbing his own coat and messing with his freshly-combed hair. The smell of mint and sleep-mussed hair washed over him through their close proximity; undoubtedly, his heart sped up at this, and nearly leaped when he caught John’s eyes.

“Ready?” The doctor prompted, squeezing his bicep just slightly before slipping behind him and opening the door. Sherlock blinked, then hid an uncontrolled smile in his scarf before stepping outside into the cool air. “We’ll be back soon,” John called to the landlady, and presumably a sleepy Rosie, then followed Sherlock, shutting the door quietly behind them. It was only after the familiar ‘click’ of the knob did he realise that he was staring at John; he had picked out a mustard-yellow jumper that’d Sherlock had only seen once several years ago. The warm colour brought out the golden flakes in the doctor’s irises, the sunshower blonde between his graying hair,  the tan that ended at his clavicle, and made him shine, just a little brighter - perhaps it contributed to the perk in his posture - than the dim, cloudy London exterior. 

He couldn’t help but smile, just a little, at the thought that, perhaps, the rest of the world would see John at least a fraction of how beautifully bright he saw him, always. This brought an even more quizzical look to John’s expression, then a playful shove to Sherlock’s right arm. “Oh, shut up!” John said, struggling to keep back a grin as he stepped off the stoop. 

“I didn’t say a word,” Sherlock argued back, nearly skipping to John’s side. “It’s - yes, it’s… different.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, afraid something more, something deeper might slip.  _ Your very skin is glowing even more than usual. I like it. _

“‘Different’?” John scoffed, shaking his head. “You hate it.” He looked up at the detective, then stopped completely, grabbing onto a wooly sleeve. Sherlock’s breath shuddered. A beat, two, more - a century, perhaps, before John spoke again, eyes set on catching Sherlock’s, “Wait, no, you like it, don’t you?”

The same playful, teasing tone was there still, but underneath, there was the slightest quiver; Sherlock, cautiously, bashfully not allowing himself to look up, recognised the shake of eagerness from his own voice. His heart pumped and pumped, flooding his cheeks with colour. Horror followed, and he shrugged, but didn’t answer, only looked up over John’s head. His mouth was far too dry to speak. 

John was smiling, he could feel it. He could feel the joy spread through the space, the gaseous molecules separating them, the doctor’s fingers a layer away from his skin - then, on his cheek, the warmth of his touch, his fingertips apart from the cool Autumn air. Sherlock’s lips parted then, and another breath escaped. Control lost, his gaze fell onto John’s.

The tension, every drop of it, fled from his muscles then, and his own fingers reached out, just barely grasping onto the sleek fabric of John’s jacket. Exposed, he just stood, knowing he’d done something wrong, something dangerously horrible.

“Sherlock.” Lost in the gradient of John’s beautiful, magically spectacular irises, the detective heard his name, but could not reply, only hold tighter onto the fabric at his touch. The thumb on his cheek stroked over his chilled skin, as if soothing him further into the overly-lascivious trance, easing his mind into a soft blankness and filling his lungs with mint and petrichor. John seemed to bleed through the air into his nerves and conscience, taking up every stuttering breath with that hypnotizing stare. Sherlock couldn’t move, only think, admire the electricity he felt tickle at his skin, the overwhelming jubilance in his heart, and that tantalizing touch on his cheek. In that moment, he felt both vulnerable and secured between the ironclad stare and blissful closeness. 

Shock tumbled through his system as John took a step back, zipping up his jacket, hiding the jumper from sight. Sherlock’s chest seemed to clinch in on itself, hands shaking as he reached to fluff his hair. The cold city air replaced any warmth he had built up, leaving him embarrassed, chilled, and crashing off of an endorphin high. 

The catastrophic moment kept replaying in his mind, flashing visions of the brightest blue challenged with a glowing gold, followed by the sharp, coolness of a zipper against his trembling touch. A single spark seemed to still dance on his skin where John’s thumb had seconds before, easing a warmth into his skin that he wished could stay forever.

“Sherlock.” John was calling for him, holding open the door to a cab. Riddled with an adrenaline crash, he struggled to pocket his shaking hands and maintain control over his expression as he ducked into the cab. “You alright?” John asked him after closing the door. 

“Yeah, yeah - I’m fine,” was all he could muster, glancing at the doctor for just a moment, hoping to convince him with a smile. Again, however, he was caught off-guard, upon seeing a slight rosy hue lighting up John’s cheeks; his eyes twinkled around dilated pupils. Sherlock’s heart leaped against his ribcage. John had felt something, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Super late, and I'm sorry about that - I went on holiday, and failed to finish this beforehand. I hope this makes up for the wait! Find me on my (new and still in-progress) tumblr: kephale.tumblr.com
> 
> As always, feedback is greatly, greatly appreciated. <3


	12. Brief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock needed rest, and that’s the end of it.”

**_XII_ **

 

The Yard was bustling, still faintly smelling of cheap coffee and freshly-sprayed perfume; the ride over had been fairly quiet, only disrupted by John’s comment on their lack of milk, to which Sherlock replied, “Mrs. Hudson has undoubtedly noticed.” Now, as they exited the elevator and squeezed their way through rushing Yarders, John’s hand rested on Sherlock’s lower back, pressing slightly into the curve of his spine beneath the wool jacket, as if guiding him through the office. The touch brought a touch of warmth to Sherlock’s cheeks; he blamed it, secretly, on the August heat.

Lestrade sat, as usual, with his feet perched on the desk, a file in one hand, and a coffee in the other. He straightened upon seeing them enter, bringing his feet underneath the desk and the coffee onto an English Rugby coaster; the file fell to face Sherlock, a photo of Newburn falling out.

“I’ve got an angry mob of a family contacting me every five seconds, a reporter asking why a young, promising store manager is in custody and nearly died last night, and a stubborn bastard who called the entirety of the Yard to assist in capturing this man, but disappeared after we arrived.” Lestrade’s voice sounded as if it were meant to cut into his skin, but it wasn’t anything Sherlock hadn’t been told before. John’s hand had retreated to the arm of the office chair next to him.

“I had business that needed tending to,” he calmly replied, resting a hand on the chair in front of him. Sitting would only lengthen this dull meeting. “I emailed you all the proper details needed to take him into custody, didn’t I?”

Lestrade scoffed, “I’m sure everyone’s heard that one before, by now. Seriously, where’d you run off to? Your flat? Hospital? I almost had some people go after you.” The question made Sherlock’s heart clench, and he glanced at John, whose shoulders were defensively pulled back and lips pursed. The doctor met his eyes for just a second, then turned away again.

“Sherlock needed rest, and that’s the end of it.”

John’s voice broke the moment of heated silence, slicing through Lestrade’s stern glare; the shock clearly riddled the D.I., but he gathered himself a moment later, saying simply, “Right, then.” Sherlock’s heart ached, fingers clinging onto the chair arms as he searched for anything to say to better the situation. Nothing came to him, except John’s hand resting, just briefly, on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very short, but I hope to have the next one up within the next day to make up for it! Thank you all for the support.


	13. Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heat began to flood behind his eyelids. Throat constricted, he looked away, focusing on the lamplight flooding into the flat. Years ago, he’d come home late from the Yard, seeing John’s serene figure molded into the sofa, a novel discarded on his chest. The golden light from the street shone on his face, highlighting his cheekbones, eyelashes, and supple lips perfectly; he couldn’t remember how long he’d stood there, affronted with such a beautiful, idyllic, angelic sight, taking in every curve of the doctor, every breath, every beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been a minute! I'm glad to be back, and I hope you like the chapter! <3

**_XIII_ **

 

The weeks after brought a painful nostalgia that had woven its way into previous years. A knot tightened inside of him - restraining his lungs, plucking at his nerves, and pinching his veins - with each passing minute. The defensive, catastrophic, subconscious decision to cut John out of his essence came as a second nature to Sherlock; one that he’d grown used to letting take control over every beat of his life.

He feared, more than ever, that John would notice, would be disgusted and lecture him, then leave again, taking everything: their history, their companionship, his affection, and Rosie with him. That revelation could not happen, at least for John’s sake. Sherlock forced a mental wall between him and the doctor. After nearly two months of John settling back in at Baker Street, their time together plummeted. The detective kept his mind knitted tightly around cases, lab work, and experiments. He could feel his clothes growing looser, his nights shorter, and heart alienating; it wasn’t long before his body pulled him towards the truest release of tension it had ever known, reminding Sherlock with avid itches to his inner forearm. The magnetic urge to open the velvet-lined box hidden beneath his bed grew immensely, entwining itself into his physical and emotional strain, ticking away any drop of rest he let himself have.

Exhausted and slouching over a sample of rare fungus, it was on a Tuesday night - eleven days into Sherlock’s abandonment - Mrs. Hudson voiced her concern. She came in without a knock, setting down his evening tray of anything she thought he might eat: biscuits, mainly, with a bit of fruit and meats. It was late, John’s footsteps had retreated from the living room and upstairs over an hour ago, but that didn’t stop the landlady, dressed in gingham pyjamas and a plush dressing gown. 

“Sherlock,” she said, spinning the tray so that the biscuits were within reach of him between bottles and dishes. Her speech held little hesitation, expelling that kind-hearted, timid worry she used only in the worse of times. “You should get your rest, don’t you think?”

“I am rested,” the detective replied with a biting bitterness. His gaze didn’t move from the green fungal matter, which he tested with a solution contained in a dropper. “You need your rest, I’m afraid - Mrs. Turner’s gossip must have been tiring. Off you go, and thank you for the biscuits, but I’m not hungry. Don’t forget your herbals.”

She pushed the plate towards him. “No, absolutely not. You’re not getting off that easy. The market had that blackberry honey you like so much, now eat a biscuit. You need it.”

“I’m not hungry, Mrs. Hudson.”

“John said he hasn’t seen you eat since Saturday morning, Sherlock -”

“Obviously.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m busy,” he grumbled in return. Sherlock shifted his chair just enough to turn his body away from the landlady. 

The fungus sizzled under a drop of acid. Without vacillation, Mrs. Hudson’s hand, wrinkled with age and dusted in flour, reached over the counter, caressing Sherlock’s right wrist. His muscles weakened with the contact, and the suspended hand shook unsteadily underneath Mrs. Hudson’s. She lowered his hand gently to the countertop, plucking the dropper from his feeble grip.

“Sherlock.”

Heat began to flood behind his eyelids. Throat constricted, he looked away, focusing on the lamplight flooding into the flat. Years ago, he’d come home late from the Yard, seeing John’s serene figure molded into the sofa, a novel discarded on his chest. The golden light from the street shone on his face, highlighting his cheekbones, eyelashes, and supple lips perfectly; he couldn’t remember how long he’d stood there, affronted with such a beautiful, idyllic, angelic sight, taking in every curve of the doctor, every breath, every beat. 

The light his mind had fixated on grew blurry with foggy tears. Mrs. Hudson’s hand tightened over his own, clutching his fingers, and briefly stroking over his thumb. How young he was, all those years ago, mesmerised by that same light and the man he so desperately wished he could admire, just as he had then, every day. 

A spasm erupted through him, and a horrible, inhuman sound tumbled from his throat as tears streamed freely down his heated cheeks; the knot that had captivated him strained, expanding to every nerve-ending in his body and collapsing just slightly more with each sob. Eyes shut, he let himself fall into Mrs. Hudson, who embraced him tightly, shushing him softly and stroking the ends of his hair.

“It’s going to be alright, do you hear me? You’re going to be okay.” She whispered to him. Heart pounding, his fingers grasped tightly onto her dressing gown, hiding his sobs in her shoulder. Aching, he let his body go, willing himself to find some solace in the delicate, honest comfort. With each exhale, his exhaustion grew, pushing him closer to the brink of complete quiescence. 

“You have to tell him, Sherlock. You have to.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your support <3


	14. Minimus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once-paralysed, his heart released itself.
> 
> This was fine.

**_XIV_ **

 

The tube was filled to the brim with evening commuters, staggered between poles and worn seats, expelling numerous perfumes, deodorants, and work-day odors. 

Sherlock, unable to resist the enormous temptation, deduced every person, bag, limb in sight, rambling off secrets and office complications to John from his hawk-like position next to a dented pole:

“That one’s a nurse - for the mental ward, you can tell by the creases beneath her jaw. She’s only just started, within the last two weeks, I’d say - those stains at the hem of her shirt were there recently, and she didn’t bother to remove them - lack of confidence, at least when it comes to her profession. That eyeliner must require  _ some  _ motive to -”

“- All right, that’s enough,” John cut in, but a smile crinkled his cheeks and the corners of sparkling, oceanic eyes. Sherlock, forgetting immediately about the stranger, wondered if John had ever been to the shore; had ever played pirates until the sun set and sand had buried itself in the skin behind his knees; had ever admired the sparkling caps beneath a golden, summer night’s sun. 

_ Show him. _

A stinging shriek brought his mind back to the fluorescent, crowded car, and the man looking back at him, with that rare crescent of starlight - easily more magnificent than any August day’s last beams. Sherlock’s gaze left, turned to a woman with a trolley on the landing. His throat, clenched around a deduction, cleared itself, and let out the syllables needed to express the mother’s dilemma, letting his mind trail away from the heat on his cheekbones and the scent of cedar shampoo with mint and tea and jam. 

He’d almost gotten through - almost made it to the grass stain on her trainers - when a finger dusted across his  _ digitus minimus manus _ , traced over his ring finger’s first knuckle, and another joined; a calloused, small thumb and two fingers, settled over his own - which immediately tightened around the too-cold pole. Sherlock’s voice caught deep in his chest, barely above his diaphragm, clung to a nerve and stayed, leaving his mouth open and useless.

“Her jeans, Sherlock?” Came the sound he needed, the words his own voice was searching for.

“Yes - yes, her jeans -” Throat cleared, “- They’re turned up once, accommodating the walking earlier…”

The cab’s door closed, and the train started, leaving Sherlock to continue his deduction without the fear of being noticed; once he did, he was rewarded with a soft ‘ _ brilliant _ ’ and a thumb’s stroke of affirmation, followed by a tender smile - the kind he’d gotten this morning, after accepting tea and toast with blueberry jam. Once-paralysed, his heart released itself.

_ This was fine _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was super short, and I'm sorry! I've been busy with school and family; but this had to be written, and I hope it slightly makes up for my absence! <3


	15. Knuckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock risked a glance up at John, and found a glowing, golden-cobalt gaze staring back, crinkled at the corners from a wide smile.

**_XV_ **

 

John’s hand became a cornerstone; a rock-solid base; an anchor, not unlike the man himself. Calloused fingers wound their way between Sherlock’s, stroking, soothing, over tea and toast, atop leather seats in taxis, on streets and staircases and cafe tables. Each time felt like the first: mesmerising, enchanted, absolutely wonderful. Sherlock’s mind would race, focus on the doctor’s soothing touch, catalogue each curve and dip and crease. 

In the privacy of the flat or empty alleys, John’s fingers would tangle with Sherlock’s own, squeezing affirmation between deductions or the state of the lungs in the fridge. Across public tables or in cabs, however, John would simply brush his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s, possible interlocking a single finger, allowing the detective the opportunity to reciprocate, first. This made heat flood Sherlock’s cheeks and his palms break out in a light moisture, but he learned quickly that a splay of fingers or quick squeeze would give John the consent he needed, and his hand would promptly take Sherlock’s in his own, a smile sparkling across his cheeks. Sherlock’s heart never failed to ripple with affection.

As days turned to weeks, and John’s hand became a constant coefficient to Sherlock’s own, he began to reach for the touch, expectant. Over a period of thirteen case-less hours, he scooted the living chairs closer together, angling John’s towards the windows and his own towards the landing, positioning their respective dominant sides conveinently nearer.

With John’s footsteps on the first set of stairs, Sherlock positioned himself in his seat, legs sprawled wide, hair in a disastrous state, nose falsely planted in a toxic herbology book, and a single arm strewn out, palm up and receptive.

John paused at the doorway, hands hovering over his coat’s zipper; Sherlock didn’t look up. “Still no case, then?” The coat fell from his shoulders, scraped the wall behind the hook. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock drawled, flipping the page with a focused fervour.

“Right. Tea?” 

“Please.” Sherlock could hear the kettle filling before he replied, and the chuckled from the doctor his politeness received. 

Eyes focused on a diagram of  _ cicuta maculata _ , Sherlock listened to John prepare two mugs, tap his fingers on the counter impatiently as the water reached a boil, and finally trod over to Sherlock’s side, holding a full, steaming mug just above the horizon of the green-leather book cover. His open palm remained, fingers twitching just slightly. 

“Lazy git,” John huffed, propping the mug in Sherlock’s offered hand and ruffling his moussed hair. Sherlock could hear the smile in the comment, and proceeded to sip the warm drink, feeling the sweetness pool over his tongue, and set the mug aside. He let out a appreciative hum.

Another page was flipped, and Sherlock’s hand again fell open, slightly off his knee, palm cooling from the warm ceramic. He arched his back forward just slightly, allowing his hand to fall even more forward, and nose edging toward a useless paragraph on child consumption of tobacco.

John, legs crossed and mug abandoned, opened up his own novel. He remained like that, properly ignoring Sherlock, for nearly a full minute before dropping his left hand and taking Sherlock’s own.

Heart filled to the brim, Sherlock risked a glance up over his book, watching first how John’s thumbs traced pale knuckles, sending a shiver through Sherlock’s shoulder and straight to his chest, then curled his fingers into the detective’s in a tender embrace. 

Sherlock risked a glance up at John, and found a glowing, golden-cobalt gaze staring back, crinkled at the corners from a wide smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life keeps getting in the way, and I apologise! Thank you for reading; every single comment and kudo is appreciated! <3


	16. Dusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft warmth still resided atop the muscle; there was no exception anywhere on the doctor’s body, a side-effect of age, but John’s chest heaved against Sherlock’s ribs, breaths nearly synced, strong and sturdy. Sherlock had let his gaze drift down to the inch of exposed collarbone, taut with toned tendon. His mind’s eye provided that image again, still-tan skin expanding down a hardened chest - interrupted only by a light flare on a rugged shoulder and a dusting of sandy hair along a wonderful, captivating navel - goldened by late-afternoon sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are... heating up.

**_XVI_ **

 

“The red cardigan.”

“Why do you say that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, stiffening the paper in front of him with an annoyed huff. “You know why.”

John left his place in front of the mantel’s mirror, working the cuff buttons of an ugly, dull-green dress shirt. His shoulders visibly sagged in defeat, but the corners of his eyes crinkled with a suppressed grin. Sherlock’s inhale trembled slightly, heat creeping up the back of his neck.

From the edge of his view, next to the various shop ads, he watched John disappear back upstairs, an unmistakable spring in his step. The old floorboards creaked a moment later, preceding a squeal from the oriental armoire; the click of a brass knob went unheard.

Sherlock’s scanning of the exceptionally-boring obituaries came to a sudden, deafening halt. His thoughts first turned to Rosie, remembering instantly that Mrs. Hudson had her downstairs, keeping her occupied with mashed peas and Christmas specials on the telly - cartoon voices carried up through the stairwell, a near whisper. Eyes flicking back to the ascending steps, Sherlock recalled a moment from two nights before: John shoving him into the back of a closet, past sanitation equipment and office supplies, pressing his front against Sherlock’s, Sig drawn in his left, steady hand. As gunfire resumed, John pressed closer, thighs burying against the other man’s; muscular, strong, almost-strained in his jeans from old, army muscles being reawakened with late-night chases. 

Soft warmth still resided atop the muscle; there was no exception anywhere on the doctor’s body, a side-effect of age, but John’s chest heaved against Sherlock’s ribs, breaths nearly synced, strong and sturdy. Sherlock had let his gaze drift down to the inch of exposed collarbone, taut with toned tendon. His mind’s eye provided that image again, still-tan skin expanding down a hardened chest - interrupted only by a light flare on a rugged shoulder and a dusting of sandy hair along a wonderful, captivating navel - goldened by late-afternoon sunlight. 

Paper abandoned, Sherlock’s fingers twitched at his side, pulling him towards the mahogany door-frame. They stroked at the moulding, as if following warm sides, hips, thighs. Sherlock’s breath hitched, fingers stilling over a notch in the wood as a part of John -  _ he’s always walked like that _ \- dusted with pink, robust just like the rest of the man, nestled in dark-blonde hair forced its way into his thoughts.

“Sherlock?”

Two blinks provided a photo-worthy image of John, adjusting burgundy sleeves from the fourth step leading to his bedroom. Eyes crinkled from a small, bright smile, cerulean pupils beaming back at Sherlock, John closed the gap between them, fingers leaving worn cotton in favour of stroking over the back of Sherlock’s left hand. The taller man finally braved a slight grin in return, swiveling his palm to touch John’s own. 

“Hey,” John said with a chuckle. “What’s going on in that big brain of yours, hmm?” With that, he reached up with his free hand, brushing Sherlock’s fringe away from his brow, thumb trailing down his temple, cheekbone, jaw. 

“Hello,” Sherlock murmured in reply, smile deepening. He managed to suppress a shiver from John’s touches, and instead leaned into each caress, eyelids fluttering for just a moment. John laughs again, and it’s sweeter than honey, warmer than tea - Sherlock can’t help but lean in, to drink all of the beauty he can.

“Whoa, there,” John grins, fingers leaving his jaw to steady the detective at the curve of his neck. “Can’t have you falling before you’ve even had anything to drink.” 

“Planning to get me drink, are you?” Sherlock giggled back, fingers leaving cold wood in favour of worrying a hem of maroon wine between his fingers. “I’ll have to watch for that, Watson.”

“Oh-ho, no you don’t. With that attitude, you’ll need more than that God-knows-what punch the Yard has to offer.” John’s eyes sparkle, and Sherlock could’ve sworn the doctor leaned in just enough to drop his gaze and whisper, “I know you’re  _ plenty  _ affectionate as a drunk, Holmes.”

Sherlock’s cheeks inflamed with a wave of emotion. John tugged him down the stairs, squeezing his hand tightly, thumb rubbing circles onto Sherlock’s. He left the other man to his coat as he rushed to say a goodbye to Rosie and Mrs. Hudson.

Flustered, Sherlock spent the better part of two minutes struggling into his coat and scarf, quickly fixing his hair and suit in the hall mirror. John left 221A with another smile, one that nearly-bordered on a smirk. Absolutely stunning, the image was, and the base of Sherlock’s spine tingle, sparking his stomach to flip; the burgundy jumper hugged his biceps perfectly, bringing out rosy strands in his hair; paired with a black shirt and worn jeans, John glowed with a sharp perfection. 

“Ready?” He asked, giving a light tug on Sherlock’s hip to nudge him towards the cracked door.

“Yes - yes, of course,” Sherlock managed. “You - erm, John, you do look… handsome. Smart.”

John let the door fall shut with a soft  _ click. _ His gaze fell on Sherlock’s with steady affection and a warmth that reached beneath the detective’s ribs. “Yeah?” The doctor grinned up at him. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” John’s fingers ran up behind the lapel of Sherlock’s wool coat. He popped the collar up, smile growing as he did so. “Bloody handsome, too, I’d say.”

Sherlock’s throat felt tight; his skin tingled beneath dark wool from John’s lingering hands on his shoulders, his chest, and another surge of heat prickled at his cheeks. He watched John’s throat work, a thick swallow as he grinned up at him, and then a cobalt gaze fell down to Sherlock’s mouth. The detective wet his lips on instinct. John did the same, and Sherlock’s heart flipped. 

_ Oh, God, yes. _

“John - “

“Yeah?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when an awful cry rattled through the entirety of 221 Baker Street. John’s smile returned, deepening the creases lining his cheeks, and then he laughed, looking down at the small space between them. A moment later, Sherlock was laughing, too, hearty giggles falling from flushed lips.

“Get a cab, yeah? I’ll be right there. Don’t even think about leaving without me, understand?” John raised a threatening finger at Sherlock, who gave a nod, and let John by to attend to Rosie.

Without fault, he found a taxi, throat still tight and grin bigger than he’d seen in his reflection in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking by! I come with a short-ish chapter, but bearing great news: I've been accepted into a film and theatre programme in London! I'm beyond excited - this is something I've wanted since I was a kid. I hope now that I've achieved that, I can attend to this more, and share my inspiration more thoroughly.
> 
> As always, your kindness is absolutely wonderful and keeps me going. 
> 
> (Also - I am thinking about reworking the beginning chapters. I've been working on this for over a year now! Can you believe it? My writing has changed so much. I can't even look at the beginning of this fic without cringing.)


	17. Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dance?” Closed curtains, damp palms, quick words, and joyless smiles flashed across Sherlock’s mind. Ages, absolute ages had passed since their last dance. 
> 
> But never, ever, had there been a real one. Not together.

**_XVII_ **

 

Long fingers stroked over cool glass, swirling the mulberry liquid, settling further into the cheap sofa. John hummed in response, sinking down against the cushion with him. A tanned hand captivated warmth just above Sherlock’s knee, thumb imprinting lazy circles in each crevice; the detective felt heat dust his aching cheeks. A smile had not left his face since the moment on their landing - except for, of course, dismissing Lestrade’s holiday welcomes and small talk. John took care of the bustling greetings, hand firm on Sherlock’s back, ensuring a warm comfort.

Sherlock let his lips close, his final deduction on the process of Anderson and Donovan relationship resting in the air between them. The obnoxious holiday festivities - clinking glasses, drunken dancing, upbeat remixes of Christmas songs - faded around the sofa, leaving Sherlock’s mind to solely focus on the easy, deep breaths John took, the path of a skilled thumb exploring the curve of Sherlock’s  _ patella _ , ever-so-often stroking up above the root of the  _ rectus femoris _ . Each brush of skin over cloth, light squeeze, dip of fingers, exquisite contact, left Sherlock feeling wonderfully content, joyous, and affectionate.

John seemed perfectly able to nurse his whiskey for hours. Sherlock wouldn’t have complained - he let himself fall against John’s side, slouching enough to press a cheek against a cardigan-clad shoulder, drifting from the party completely.

A disaster, predictably, ensued.

“Where’s John? Christ - has anyone seen John Watson?! This is his bloody song!” Lestrade’s voice rang out with broadened clarity, albeit slightly-slurred from drink.

John’s hand immediately stilled on Sherlock’s knee, shoulder tensing beneath a warm cheek. He turned, hesitation obvious in the twitch of his finger against whiskey-clouded glass, then pressed his nose briefly into Sherlock’s curls. His chest raised, lungs expanding; Sherlock’s breath caught. 

John was - artfully, wonderfully, dangerously - breathing him in. A low hum followed a second inhale, a brief press of lips - yes, lips, positively - and a murmured, “I’m so sorry,” before he was lifting Sherlock’s chin, flashing a small, promising grin, and standing. The whiskey was abandoned atop an offered table.

“We’ll get out of here, after this, hmm?” He said, briefly squeezing Sherlock’s hand in apology. “I’ll be right back. Duty calls.” He winked, then disappeared between two interns. Sherlock was left with an incredulous tingling running from his knee and hand down his spine. 

Prepared for an entire tantrum and a return to the murder plan for one D.I. Lestrade, Sherlock’s limbs stretched, body sinking further down onto sofa, lip jutting out in bitter defeat. His wine disappeared rather quickly, and he swallowed down the rest of John’s whiskey, letting the burn settle in his stomach before leaping up from the sofa and shoving his way along the wall, dodging two elbows and one champagne bottle. 

John was, indeed, the center of attention. The song - clearly reminiscent of the 1960’s, a strong baseline and drums placing it firmly in the ‘light rock’ genre - was implanted perfectly to the doctor’s memory. His lips moved in perfect synchronization with every lyric, feet grazing along the office carpet with each beat, hands and shoulders flexing with claps and flux in position. The cardigan accommodated each movement, clinging to muscle and the elegant curve of a military-man’s spine. Sherlock’s gaze fell to John’s trousers, captivated by the bulge hidden by zip and seam; it was then that John stopped, and Sherlock was confronted with a red-faced smile and sparkling eyes. 

Heat immediately flushed to his neck, cheeks, and ears. His lips smacked shut; a single blonde eyebrow quirked back at him, and Sherlock’s ribs should have ripped apart from the pace of his frantic heart. But then John was close, so close the scent of mint, whiskey, and cheap shampoo (Forest Rain) danced into his senses, colliding with a warm, quick brush of fingers, then a tight hold around his palm.

Sherlock let himself be pulled forward, albeit ungracefully, his feet practically stumbling as John led him to the centre of the room. People shouted their endearments, several - blasted Anderson - making animalistic hooting noises. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, to apologise, to excuse himself and save John the embarrassment, but the doctor beat him to  it.

“Dance?” Closed curtains, damp palms, quick words, and joyless smiles flashed across Sherlock’s mind. Ages, absolute ages had passed since their last dance. 

But never, ever, had there been a real one. Not together.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Sherlock murmured. A wicked flash of something dangerous sparked in John’s eye, and a giant smirk took place of his grin; a hand grasped Sherlock’s waist, just above his hip, pulling him close; the other intertwined their fingers, giving a light squeeze before bouncing into motion once again.

Letting John set the pace, watching him, feeling the instrumental current between their hands and bodies, spurred Sherlock to follow, to let himself give in to the dance - to John.

The song ended all-too-quickly, a pop melody booming over the speakers in its place. Sherlock held tightly to John’s hand, looking up to meet his gaze, heat still dusting his cheeks, curls clinging to his forehead with a light sweat. 

John was beaming. Beneath the fluorescents of the office space, dents and wear of age shone brightly, matching the grey hairs stroked among sandy ones, and added to the pure originality of the man himself. Crinkled eyes and deepened smile lines made Sherlock’s heart stammer, pushing him closer to the doctor, who placed a steadying hand on his chest.

Stubbled lips parted, prepared to make a comment, but no sound escaped, cut off by Chopin’s Prelude Op. 28: No. 15 in D-Flat. Sherlock’s head immediately turned, greeted by a red-cheeked Lestrade, who raised an-equally-red cup in a salute over the top of a computer. He attempted a grimace in return, but found his cheeks creasing with a minute smile instead.

Distracted from his plan of vengence, Sherlock looked back down at a sweat-dampened John. “Another dance, Mr. Holmes?” His hands hovered over the dip in Sherlock’s waist, eyes wide, searching, wanting. Sherlock’s heart clenched.

“Another, Doctor Watson,” he agreed quietly. A grin replaced the embarrassment he’d worn seconds before.

Shaking hands settled atop toned shoulders, fingers idly playing with cotton wine, swaying closer to the warmth his skin began to itch for, until his chest rested against John’s, chin nestled against a taut clavicle, and his arms stretched tightly around the man himself, hands splayed across shoulder blades, fingertips dipping into the curve of each. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind words/wishes! <3
> 
> If you're interested, I remade my tumblr over at bumbleholmes.tumblr.com ! It's still a work-in-progress, but I hope to meet some of you over there, and gather more inspiration!


	18. Circulate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock…” His voice felt like the purest honey, dripping down with golden light and the warmth of a promise, of a commitment. 
> 
> “Oh… John -”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologise for my use of anatomical names - I tried to use them accurately, and my main objective is to achieve the full body of Sherlock's POV! 
> 
> This chapter came quickly after the last, but I do have finals coming up this week, and can't promise that will stay the same!

**_XVIII_ **

 

“To be fair - no, Sherlock, to be  _ absolutely  _ fair - I invaded Afghanistan,” the door to 221 Baker Street clicked shut, an eruption of giggles flooding the dark hallway.

“Mmm… you did  _ not _ do that alone, you… silly man,” Sherlock pointed a finger at John as tender hands plucked wool from his shoulders. The dark coat rested comfortably next to a short bomber, a single golden hair glinting on the collar. 

“Oh - that’s what I am, now? ‘Silly man’?” John’s face split into a wide, smirking grin, another wave of laughter falling from each man’s lips. Sherlock gave an extravagant nod, making his head swim. The doctor swatted a pale finger away, sticking his tongue out briefly in a tease, then ushered him towards the stairs. The steps proved to be extremely out-of-proportion, jutting at all lengths and heights. Mrs. Hudson ought to know that her stairs have gone completely wonkers - and, yes, the first one was far too slippery.

“Oof!” Sherlock’s hands grasped onto the railing as he fell. “Mrs. - Mrs… Hud -” Warm fingers caught off Sherlock’s whining shouts, clasping over plush lips that suddenly felt far too dry. 

“Shh… Christ, Sherlock, you’ll wake the whole block,” John said, but there was a curve to his reprimand that gave away a ruthless smirk. His breath ghosted the detective’s ear as he bent lower, arm wrapping across a lithe chest. Sherlock’s tongue swept out, subconscious demanding moisture on his lips. Instead, he was met with sweet, rough skin, plush and perfectly-calloused from age. John’s body immediately tensed.

Pressed chest-to-back to the doctor, Sherlock could feel every movement, every breath, every ounce of hesitation and tension that seeped through the layers of fabric between them. Heat covered Sherlock, enveloping him from each point of contact, and traveling to his cheeks, chest, and further down. 

John was perfectly fit; his muscled thighs dug against Sherlock’s, flexing with the weight of holding both of them up; his  _ biceps brachii _ ,  _ brachioradialis _ , down to the pressure of a sturdy  _ adductor pollicis _ on the curve of his ribs were wonderfully solid, radiating warmth, comfort, safety as they grasped onto Sherlock’s own thin body; his hips, disguised only by cruel denim, bore against his bum, contested only by an insistent zipper pressed to the top of his trouser seam.

The taste of cinnamon sugar from a biscuit John had commandeered from the disappointing buffet at the Met lingered on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, lips still parted against a coarse palm, and he longed for another brush, another exploration across the man he lusted after, adored, admired,  _ loved.  _ The temptation was shattering, realing his addled mind across possibilities, outcomes, when a stroke of familiarity filtered into his lungs, his veins: an earthy, minted-cotton scent, an underlying coat of musk unmistakably working between cologne.

Sherlock’s diaphragm heaved, taking in as much of the god-worthy smell, letting it fill his mind, the gaps between neurons, the heat in his abdomen, the tingling in his fingers and tongue. It was this inhale that drew the same from John, who tucked his chin over Sherlock’s shoulder in an attempt to hide the intake of air. A thumb stroked over the detective’s top lip, falling into a cupid’s bow, pulling moisture with it. A rod of shock riveted through Sherlock, sending a gasp onto John’s hand. 

“Sherlock…” His voice felt like the purest honey, dripping down with golden light and the warmth of a promise, of a commitment. 

“Oh… John -”

The door of 221A swung open, flooding the entryway with orange light, and the shadow of a sleep-tousled Mrs. Hudson. “Boys, Rosie’s asleep - oh!”

John grasped the railing, pulling himself up - albeit unsteadily, a hand using Sherlock’s bum as leverage - leaving the detective very cold. “Sorry about that, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock fell and, well, I think we’ve both had a bit too much to drink.” 

Sherlock watched the landlady from a gap in the railing, her eyebrows settling back down, eyes warming, smile bringing out her wrinkles in the dim light. “Not a problem, dears,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’ll have breakfast up in the morning. Get some rest - and please do be quiet. You know I’m too old for such a racket.” She flashed a wink to John, then hustled off, closing the door to 221A behind her.

Bathed in darkness, Sherlock listened to John’s ragged breathing for long moments, counting his own heartbeats. Then, as abruptly as before, the doctor broke out into a fit of giggles, and Sherlock couldn’t help but join him.

“Alright, alright, come on. Up you get -” He properly manhandled Sherlock up this time, gripping his armpits, and wrapping an arm around his waist. They tackled the seventeen steps together, resting against the landing wall to comment on the awful storebrand mixers. The flat welcomed them with a streamline of peach light from the streetlamp, guiding their way around discarded toys and case files on the path to Sherlock’s bedroom. 

Collapsing onto the bed, Sherlock fumbled with his fly, pleased to find that John had already worked off his shoes and socks, and was eyeing his struggling digits with a furrow in his brow. Sherlock gave a huff of frustration, to which John chuckled at, and moments later his trousers were pulled off, folded atop the hamper. 

Thoughts torn between the evening’s events and John’s presence, Sherlock snuffled into a pillow, helplessly reaching for the duvet; he was warm a moment later, fingertips lingering on the protruding joint at the ridge of his shoulder. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” came a whisper, and then the touch was gone, and Sherlock looked to see John’s frame departing, fingers already at his own fly.

“John,” he said, too loudly, but the man turned, cheeks flushed thoroughly, chest heaving, and eyes wide with concern. Sherlock swallowed against the lump in his throat.  “Stay.” His eyes prickled with exhaustion and the threat of emotional overture. “Please.”

Warmth flooded him a mere moment later, circulating beneath his skin and bones, an arm across his waist and nose in his hair dispelling the feeling itself as sleep overcame him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all (as always) for the kind wishes and comments. They keep me going, and help the inspiration stay in-place!! <3


	19. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good?” The doctor murmured against his hair.
> 
> “Yes. Yes, John.”

**_XIX_ **

 

_ A giggling shriek tore itself from his throat, spilling into the gold-dripping air twisting around his bony knees, dancing in his auburn curls. Redbeard’s tongue wrestled a rubber ball, cherry red in the evening sun, from his adolescent grip, and charged towards churning waves. Sand stung against his ankles and the back of his legs as he ran, biting at tanned skin, but his joy drew him forward, pulling him into the white current that lapped the burn away.  _

_ His cheeks began to ache with the sun’s kiss and a permanent grin as he fell into the surf, wrestling weakly with the equally-joyous Setter, whose tail kicked foam onto the boy’s pirate hat. He splashed back, relishing in the cool touch of the water between his roughened fingers. Another laugh bubbled up deep within his chest, the rubber ball fitting perfectly in his sandy palm. He threw it, watching shells and foam cling to burgundy hair, glowing in the sunlight, as Redbeard charged after it. A hand landed softly, a whisper on his skin, as if he were made of glass, on his shoulder - caressing, stroking - then another, into his hair, working through the matted knots. The hands were sure, strong, reliable, stable, rough, capable, and wonderful and mysterious and loving - belonging to a soldier, doctor, father, enigma, a heart, home, and universe. _

 

The salt scent of the shore dissipated into the depths of Sherlock’s mind as he awoke, replaced instead by sandalwood aftershave, faint petrichor, dirty cotton, and an earthy, almost-sweet musk. His lungs filled on their own accord, taking in as much of the taste they could hold, fabric dusting Sherlock’s nose in return. He wrinkled his face in agitation, shifting forward without another thought, pushing himself deeper into that warmth and scent. A deep, honeyed laugh met him, rolling from beneath a warm chest at his nose up over his curls.

Sherlock opened his eyes, blinking at the awful, burning brightness, and wincing in turn. White cotton only reflected the sparkling morning light, halted by a slim streak of tanned, golden-hair-dusted skin that disappeared beneath his emerald duvet, and his own pale fingers, clenched around the ribbed fabric. Another slow blink allowed him to follow the expanse of white fabric, up to a stretched collar and exposed bicep that -  _ oh  _ \- led to an elbow that rested on his own shoulder, and presumably led to the hand stroking over his bare spine. He shivered, but kept looking, admiring a defined collarbone; the urge to reach out and touch surged forward. Instead, he continued up, taking in several moles he had seen briefly over several years: one resting neatly next to a perfectly-round Adam’s apple, another just beneath the left cleft of a deviated chin, and - his favourite, if he were ever to be honest - a third gracing a golden, slowly-throbbing pulse point. He swallowed thickly.

“John?” His voice was unused, weak with sleep, and he curled in on himself just a little bit more, allowing his thighs to slip away from warmer, stronger ones.

“Hmm?” The response was both everything and nothing, causing a Hell-worthy shiver to run down his spine as the vibrations ticked his hands that pressed to a strong, sturdy chest. 

“I…” He tried his voice again, cleared his throat, and opened his lips once more, but found no sound capable of coming out; he had no experience in this area, no idea what to say. An apology seemed necessary, vital, even, but the hand on his back had begun drawing slow circles into his skin, tracing scars he knew had gone unseen, and the other - left; John’s dominant, he realised - twirled over the curl at the base of his neck absently. A lump restricted his breathing, swelling up in his throat, and he closed his eyes, searching for what to say.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was beautiful, hoarse with morning weakness and perfectly rough. “Sherlock, can you - can you look at me, l- please?” A word was left unsaid, but he didn’t let himself be distracted, immediately looking up to meet sapphire rings circling velvet pupils, framed by dusty lashes. His chest tightened at the sight.

John blinked once, twice, a ghost of pink flashing over his lips. Sherlock mirrored the action, but kept his gaze up, determined not to ruin this. 

“That was… Christ, that was the best sleep I’ve had in ages,” came John’s next statement, accompanied by another laugh and a wild, glowing grin. Sherlock’s own lips curled up, and heat dusted his cheeks. 

“Yes, I feel the same way,” he admitted quietly, indulging in the sight of John’s tongue once again making an appearance. Sherlock’s heart danced.

“Good - good, Sherlock, that’s wonderful,” John’s voice dropped, but his smile deepened, bringing out the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Sherlock’s grip tightened in the cotton vest in an attempt to keep his hands steady.

“Really?” He asked back, searching pools of cerulean warmth for a truthful answer. He only found another sparkled of affection, and a fresh wave of colour met his cheeks, deepening his vulnerability. John smiled, the hand on the detective’s back leaving briefly to stroke a thumb over pink cheeks, a pale jaw.

“Of course. You’re - everything about you, really, is wonderful. Good. Great.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched. Years had passed since those first, shocking, life-altering compliments, but John’s words, praises, affections, always struck that certain nerve within him, bringing out the most infinite sense of pride. He was arrogant, off-putting, an addict and right git, but John still vocalised how he found him amazing, fantastic, brilliant. He could live off of John Watson’s words forever, if he was allowed.

“Thank you, John,” he said. “You are… wonderful, yourself. Amazing, spectacular.” The gush spilled over his lips, and he looked away, preparing for the doctor’s retreat, for his steps on the floorboards and curses as he fled 221B, fled from Sherlock, from their life. Dust would settle in his wake, and equilibrium would be restored: the cocaine-lover back to his needle and kept alive by his intellect, the doctor to his practise and place in society, with a daughter by his side. Inevitable, obvious.

A hand stroked over his arm, dipping onto his waist briefly. “Sherlock? You still here?” A finger stroked his scalp, along the curve of his ear, catching briefly on a mussed curl. The touches brought him hurling back to the present: John holding him, arms keeping him close, warmth and little air between them. “I can leave, it’s not an issue -” he began to pull away, arm curling from underneath Sherlock’s neck, cold air rushing between them. 

“No!” Sherlock’s fingers clutched onto white fabric. “I mean - I’m sorry, John, I’m sorry - I don’t… I don’t want you to leave. It seems… unnecessary. Illogical.” He cleared his throat, keeping his gaze down. 

A sigh rushed from John, dusting against dark curls as he pulled Sherlock back against him. His arms hooked once again around his body, nose pressing into his hair, thumbs stroking over his back, his neck, his arms. A warm thigh rested briefly atop his, lifting to allow the detective to push his own between soft, perfectly-muscled skin, covered in rough hair he longed to run his fingers through. He settled instead for, once again, burying his nose against John’s chest, hands rubbing along the vest. 

Nervously, he touched the short expanse of skin exposed between pants and vest; he let his fingers dance along a defined hipbone, ghosting over a plush navel, then slipping underneath the fabric, settling on John’s waist. 

“Good?” The doctor murmured against his hair.

“Yes. Yes, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter was worth the wait! (I don't like it but... that's okay.)
> 
> I created a couple of playlists you might be interested in (even if they are still works in-progress!):
> 
> Sherlock Holmes': https://open.spotify.com/user/brig128/playlist/3njMmb45GdaeACAg0Z0xsZ?si=F8KgwpzXQ1eHGzP2_C4AJg
> 
> John Watson's: https://open.spotify.com/user/brig128/playlist/4NJSy10Ep1xC72CoinrWNw?si=t_UobIWJRMSKsKqIqyvwCw
> 
> Holmes/Watson: https://open.spotify.com/user/brig128/playlist/63AqdT9lQ0ATv12Pnrk7kp?si=w1IgjozjRIayUhyk_Dt-uw
> 
> And my tumblr: bumbleholmes.tumblr.com
> 
> As always, your adoration keeps me alive and going! Thank you all <33


	20. Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As his head rested against the pillow, cool against his neck and scalp, John shifted; he turned onto his back, seemingly-still, until a hand found Sherlock’s own, twisting their fingers together.

**_XX_ **

 

Sleeping apart became an extreme rarity in the weeks following. Sherlock, fixated on a pig’s foot or a rare form of lichen, would often join John later in the evening - or, rather, very early in the morning. The first time this occurred, he stood in the doorway from the loo, eyes raking over the sleeping form beneath the silky duvet he once called his own; strong shoulders rising slowly in the auburn light casted from the streetlamp, casting deep shadows across a strong nose and jaw, highlighted by golden hairs sparkling in the sparse light. 

John had taken the left side of the bed, the one closest to both doors. A habit, Sherlock had thought, as John had always slept closest to the door upstairs. But when a box appeared beneath two horrific jumpers in Sherlock’s wardrobe, next to his own undershirts, the detective felt a surge of adoration flood through his lungs, sinking through his joints and muscles, tingling behind his eyelids and within his fingertips. He quickly excused himself to the loo, running the tap to hide his huffs of distress. Easily a reaction worthy of a ‘bit-not-good’ remark from the doctor or, nightmarishly-worse, his brother.

The presence of the government-warranted pistol behind mahogany doors created a new, strengthened barrier between the bedroom and the world outside, one of a previously-unfathomed protection, affection. The knowledge that, not only was John there, holding, caressing, stroking, but that his safeguard still extended to Sherlock -  _ honestly, he could’ve just put it in his drawer _ \- and he wanted him to know, to  _ see _ , kept him asleep soundlessly and completely at peace through the night.

His fingers twitched idly, toying with the lint in his dressing gown pocket, wishing to open those rich doors again and see the jumpers, the pants, the rugged socks, and the imprint of a lovely, dangerous, exciting box. Instead, he slipped out of his clothes, letting them pool on the floor as he moved to  _ his _ side of the mattress, settling his weight down carefully, slipping his bare legs beneath the sheets.

As his head rested against the pillow, cool against his neck and scalp, John shifted; he turned onto his back, seemingly-still, until a hand found Sherlock’s own, twisting their fingers together. 

“‘Ow was... it?” The doctor asked, voice mussed and gravelly with exhaustion. 

Sherlock’s cheeks splintered with his sudden grin. “Dull,” he replied, squeezing the fingers between his own. John’s thumb rested atop his, stroking lazy circles into his skin.

“Better now?”

Sherlock’s heart leapt. “Much.”

“Mmm… good. Wonderful.” Then John was pulling Sherlock to him, situating a strong leg between his thighs, nuzzling Sherlock’s hair, his temple. His lips dragged over the short hairs there, causing blood to rush to Sherlock’s cheeks, his ears. John smiled down at him briefly, stroking over his cheek, jaw, ear, and his lips followed the same path, pressing gently against solid bone and giving cartilage. Sherlock’s lips parted, allowing much-needed oxygen to pass into his lungs and waste to escape - albeit in the form of what his mind  _ delicately  _ labelled sighs. 

“Christ, Sherlock…” John gave a breathy sound of his own, “I’ve… I was just dreaming of this, you know. I dream of this all the bloody time. Have, you know, for years…”

John’s breath was warm, tickling against his neck and the trail his soft, delicate kisses had left, sending a spark of awareness down his spine. The doctor’s words floated between them, beneath the expensive sheets and emerald duvet, over the golden light from the street, broken into squares by the age-old windowpane. Sherlock allowed himself to look up, to meet those brilliant eyes, and he found them gazing back, glinting with familiar affection and something dark; something he’d chosen to forget for the past few months.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice made itself known of it’s own accord, seemingly with no path in-sight. He swallowed thickly, watching the corners of rosy, slightly-chapped lips tip upwards. His breath caught, twisting around his swift heartbeats.

“Sherlock,” the doctor replied. Both roughened hands were on his face now, touching, caressing, exploring. “I want… I want you to know how much you mean to me, hmm?” As Sherlock’s gave a jolt, John took a steadying breath. “I remember - God, I always remember you, don’t I? -” He huffed a small chuckle, pinpricks of colour ghosting his cheeks, “I remember how you looked, that first day, at Bart’s. Brilliant, lively, so - so  _ mysterious _ , and bloody gorgeous. I couldn’t… I couldn’t get you off my mind off of you, so I -”

“- You went home and researched me,” Sherlock interrupted, a smile of his own mirroring the brilliant one in front of him.

“Yes, yes, I went home and typed your name in every bloody search engine available,” John laughed again at that, blue irises twinkling with the memory. “And I… once I saw the flat, saw the life you lived, saw  _ you _ \- that itch to know most everything about you hasn’t gotten any better, frankly. The need to be by your side, to make you laugh and eat - even when you don’t want to, damnit - and focus on cases instead of smoking and save your life over and over again, because I want all that; I want you, I’ve always,  _ always _ -”

A piercing, ear-shattering scream cut John off, echoing from the stairwell and the little, baby-blue monitor on John’s bedside table.

“I -” Sherlock started as John rubbed a hand over his face, scrunching over wrinkles and the scar above his left eyebrow. 

“No, come on. Let’s go, together. You’ve got a better singing voice, anyway.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile at that, and John followed, huffing out a laugh that sent both of them into fits of giggles as the pulled on their dressing gowns. John ruffled Sherlock’s curls as he ushered him out the bedroom door, and kept a hand on his back, just far enough to the side to stroke his hipbone, up the stairs, only removing it to hold Rosie, who succumbed to Sherlock’s practiced singing of ‘You Are My Sunshine’.

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple as he finished the tune, and gently stroked a curl back from Rosie’s forehead, making a joke about Sherlock attempting to apply some of his styling cream before much longer.

They returned to bed soon after, smiling secretly at each other as they slipped back into their bare dressings and underneath the dusty, early-morning light. Sherlock tucked his head under John’s chin, giggling when he complained about the tickle, and slept soundly. Each time after that night, when Sherlock came to bed late, John would welcome him into his embrace, joke, even tell him a story of a patient or something he remembered from their past; by the end of those murmurings, in which John complimented Sherlock relentlessly, the detective always fell asleep with his cheeks hurting from a smile and the heat of colour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are so beautiful!! Thank you all for every bit of love and support! <33


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greying blonde hair between his fingers, sparkling in dawnlight and streetlamps; horrific jumpers peeking out from crowds and crime scenes; hearty laughs over perfect tea; rows over bad habits, ignorance, affection; glances shared across tube carriages and yellow tape and bloody murders; lovely, wonderful sandalwood cologne and peppermint coating an age-old, permanent layer of antiseptic; pools of deep, majestic, royal blue veined in Spartan gold and amazon-worthy forestry; a heart so powerful it rises to express itself between harsh, military codes, between bullets and force-fed meals, over caresses and adorations and praises; this was his home. John Watson was Sherlock Holmes’ domesticity, world, heart.
> 
> It was time to tell him so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes the famous moment from 'The Adventure of the Three Garridebs' - that being said, there is a little bit of gore and imagery. There is a horizontal line that indicates when the case is over; mostly, all you need to know is that Watson experiences a close-call with death, and Holmes' affection is apparent in his expression. Feel free to skip it with that knowledge, and while I will be discussing past torture and violence, it was discussed in the canon, and remains in the past. 
> 
> If any of this makes you uncomfortable, please skip to the last couple of paragraphs! They contain mostly dialogue, and the chapter(s) to follow will run off of that.
> 
> Also - this is the chapter!

**_XXI_ **

 

Sherlock’s vision blurred, flooding with bright, bloody red as he brought the pistol down onto the American’s head, sending a gut-wrenching crack through the air as burgundy spilled onto the pavement, the body and gun following the flood. A search found the man without arms, and his steps turned quick, legs suddenly weak as he caught sight of the second bullet’s mark.

“John - John, for God’s sakes, tell me you are not hurt!” He scrambled to help, a trembling sob erupting from his throat. Panic and adrenaline allowed him the strength to haul the doctor towards a chair, lean him against it; in turn, his mind went horrifically blank, static and rapid heartbeats filling his ears. He found John’s gaze on him, glowing sapphire in the dim light, reflecting an odd comfort and awe that sent a bone-wrecking shiver down Sherlock’s spine.

Briefly, he realised how stricken he must look: fingers pistol-bruised, lower lip and eyelids trembling, shoes and trousers hems bloodied,expression open, vulnerable, searching, wanting. But another task, infinitely more important than any other current event, was on-hand. He dug out his pocket-knife, fingers shaking, and ripped open John’s trousers, cutting widely around the bloodied area.

“A scratch, love, it’s just a scratch -” John’s hands were on him, holding the knife steady, rosy with John’s blood, stroking his shoulder, neck, hair.

“Yes, yes, I see that, now,” a sigh escaped Sherlock’s lips, “Quite… superficial, I believe.” A rustle came from behind them, and he was up in an instant, pocket-knife safely in his palm. Their prisoner, dazed, had sat up, blinking wearily at John, his bloodied thigh, then up to Sherlock, who gave a wicked expression. “Wonderful news for yourself. If you had killed John Watson, you would not have made it out of this room alive.” He glared, knife stiffening against his skin. “What do you have to say for yourself?” His voice came out as a barked demand, and the prisoner remained quiet.

 

* * *

 

 

The door to 221B clicked shut behind Sherlock, who hung his coat and slipped out of his shoes, flinging his gloves and scarf onto the distant coffee table. In the distance, cloaked in low clouds and ice, the tower chimed twelve, drawing Sherlock’s gaze to the flickering lights across the street and the delicate, melancholic frost decorating the windows.

“Merry Christmas, John,” he said into the room, expecting the man to have disappeared to the loo, and no reply to be heard; instead, a hand rested on his back, and another caressed his jaw, turning his gaze downward.

Despite having come from hospital - at Sherlock’s persistent request - and having gone nearly a full day without sleep, John’s gaze sparkled back up at him. The fairy lights wrapped around the fir in the corner of the room casted a wonderful, golden light across his features, highlighting the strength in his jaw and cheeks, the stubble ghosting down his neck, and the dampness across his rosy lips. Sherlock’s tongue slipped across his own mouth, hesitantly; a moment later, John grinned, and his tongue darted out, too.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” he murmured back, thumb idly stroking across his cheek. “You were wonderful tonight, you know. Always are, but tonight…”

“You were shot, John,” Sherlock replied immediately, brow scrunching.

“No - no, I was scraped by a bullet. That’s all,” the doctor’s voice was steady, radiating calmness, affection. Sherlock’s heart stammered, remembering the blood and panic. “But there was something else. Something I saw,” John continued, leaning up to press a gentle, fluttering kiss on the detective’s jaw, “Your eyes - they said something to me. Something I’ve wanted to say to you, for so, _so long_ , Sherlock.” Another kiss, teasing at the start of his digastric muscle.

Sherlock’s heart hammered, banging against his ribcage with a ferocity no case had ever met. His gaze stayed on John’s hair, his plum jumper, the freckles dotting his exposed clavicle.

“What is it, John?” His voice shook, carrying a nervousness that seemed to register immediately in the doctor, who pulled back and looked up at him with concern. Sherlock swallowed against the lump in his throat, but found tears stinging against his eyelashes a moment later. Shame burned against his sternum, and he tore his gaze away, burying his nose in John’s palm. He smelled of antiseptic and metallic, horrible blood.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, articulating the name with wonder, as if it were a prayer, reaching home to the golden gates of Heaven itself. The detective felt another shiver strike down his spine. “Look at me, sweetheart, please.”

With a sharp intake of breath at the title and two shaking hands gripping onto John’s jumper, Sherlock managed to, once again, meet those eyes. They crinkled slightly at the corners with a smile; deep crevices adding onto the man’s wondrous, fantastic character. He remembered when those lines weren’t deep enough to spark intrigue, to remain constant even when John wasn’t grinning. He remembered that first night, explaining his deductions, rattling off with an intensity he’d forgotten long ago under Mycroft’s scolding nose, and the awe resting blankly, for anyone to see, beneath those blue pools, sparkling with excitement and the twinkling lights of London’s dark night. He remembered every praise, compliment, opportunistic comment whispered behind yellow tape, the shelter of taxis, the romantic text on _the_ blog. He remembered the first time he thought the words that rested on the tip of his tongue now, how painful and drastic they’d been, clogging up his neurons, begging to be shouted with every spark of ferocity possible in his body, pacing beside neon water, shaking with information, with realisation, with adoration. Sherlock remembered the touches, the glances, the nods that spoke volumes and every moment in between. His mind kept those memories safe behind high walls and locked doors; his heart kept them permanent.

They were always safe, would always be, far away from the blows of Serbian torturers, pistols gripped by blonde assassins, networks and threats spewed by maniacal masterminds, a chemical kiss of cocaine. Each vow he’d made, publically and to himself, over blood and toasts, he’d promised, selfishly, to risk everything in place of John, use the memories, the dreams, the longing as collateral.

Sherlock loved him. Risk was nothing, a single blink compared to what he could do for John Watson, what he could give. Bullets to the chest, falls from St. Bartholomew's, whips and the taste of bitter bile conjoined with his own blood were nothing, _nothing_ \- he knew it too well, had seen himself reflected back in dirtied glass, reconciling from his human error, the pulse in the motherboard. The scars on his back, rigid and toughened from little care, the very dirt on his name and distrust within the public, the fresh memory of a monstrous laugh and silenced gunshot were supposed to lead him further from himself, from his mind, and somehow, fingers twisted in plum cotton and cheeks warm from the doctor’s touches, he’d never, ever, felt more at home, more _himself_.

Greying blonde hair between his fingers, sparkling in dawnlight and streetlamps; horrific jumpers peeking out from crowds and crime scenes; hearty laughs over perfect tea; rows over bad habits, ignorance, affection; glances shared across tube carriages and yellow tape and bloody murders; lovely, wonderful sandalwood cologne and peppermint coating an age-old, permanent layer of antiseptic; pools of deep, majestic, royal blue veined in Spartan gold and amazon-worthy forestry; a heart so powerful it rises to express itself between harsh, military codes, between bullets and force-fed meals, over caresses and adorations and praises; this was his home. John Watson was Sherlock Holmes’ domesticity, world, heart.

It was time to tell him so.

He can feel himself slipping. Allowing himself such sentimental thoughts had never ended well, and had long-since been abolished; but John, ever the miracle, continued to stroke his cheek, wait for the eye of the storm, and reassure him with a glowing gaze.

“I adore you, Sherlock.” John’s lips didn’t close with the words, they hovered, parted, ready. Sherlock’s own mirrored the position. “I want… I want this - _us_ \- to be… everything. For the rest of my life.” His warm hand slipped down, brushing along his jaw, closing around his nape, and pulling the detective’s forehead to his own. The taste of cheap hospital tea spilled against Sherlock’s tongue as John’s breath met his; it was, easily, the most intimate position they had ever shared, open confessions making up for the little space between them their nights in bed did not have. The realisation, the implication, left Sherlock speechless in shock, in _awe_ , lungs filling with shared air and wicked mind fizzling to a halt.

John’s thumb twirled at a single, silky curl, winding it around the digit as fingers stroked cooler skin, exposed above a wrinkled shirt collar. “I want this. I want you. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Sherlock’s throat tightened, choking off an exhale into a horribly-embarrassing sound. John was afraid he wouldn’t _want him_ . He felt miles away, drifting, sinking into the truth, into what he’d allowed John Watson to believe: that he wouldn’t choose him, over and over and _over_ again, just to make him smile, laugh, feel safe; take an infinite amount of bullets, stab wounds, hours spent in Serbian torture chambers to let his heart beat; abide by self-destruction and cocaine in order to be his best man at his wedding to a beautiful, promising, fertile woman with no flaws in sight; keep his bed, his chair, his left-behind mug open and available, despite the twinges in his heart worthy of the assassin, who nearly took his life under his failure to _see_ , and fled without a glance back; hold his hands on cases and massage his aching shoulder and offer his hair and chest for a strong nose to bury itself in; wouldn’t always, constantly, eternally, devote himself to the doctor, the blogger, the heart for the brain.

“I love you,” the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and panic flooded his veins, prickling beneath John’s stilled touches.

“You…” the man pulled back, leaving Sherlock’s blushing face cooler, vulnerable. His shoulders immediately curled in on themselves. “No - Sherlock, please, tell me…” John began, then stopped, waiting until Sherlock’s gaze met his.

The coldness, scrutiny, dagger-like rejection and disgust was nowhere, not hiding beneath the edges, of the eyes Sherlock met. Instead, a pool of warmth filled in his chest, dripping into his abdomen, filling his heart valves in place of needles coated in unforgiving adrenaline.

“Christ - I love you, I love you, too, Sherlock,” then John was against him, running his fingers through his hair, tugging him down, pressing kisses, sweeter than honey and lighter than London fog, against his cheek, jaw, neck, then to the corner of his mouth; Sherlock’s lips parted, tongue darting out briefly, as a grounding sigh slipped out of his throat. John looked up, once, for a mere second, catching Sherlock’s eyes, then grinned, and pressed his lips to the detective’s in a careful embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am debating continuing this work in a collection with domestic cases and smut; otherwise, I will simply add in my final bit of *romance* (sex) in two chapters, so people can skip it! Opinions?
> 
> And it took me well-over a year to get here! I can't believe it :'')


	22. Lavish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s lips met his at every chance. They teased, tasted, parted; a delicacy Sherlock found himself chasing in nap-inducing and adrenaline-filled cabs, before parting for Bart’s or the clinic, over breakfasts, between landings and doorsteps. He carried lip-balm with him - a newfound necessity - tucked neatly in his coat’s pocket next to wrinkled receipts and his miniature magnifying glass, and kept several tins and sticks throughout the flat. He found John’s favourite to be a coconut-fig mixture, which the doctor thoroughly enjoyed rendering completely useless after application. Within a week, Sherlock ordered three new sticks, and kept them next to John’s drug-store hair products in their medicine cabinet.

**_XXII_ **

Unskilled, adrift in pleasure, and completely wrecked with realisation, Sherlock found pure solace in the caress of John’s lips. They guided, easing his own apart, teasing at his Cupid’s bow and bottom lip, scraping his teeth over it easily, grinning at the rush of breath that left Sherlock’s already-heaving lungs. The skin clinging to John’s delicate embraces tingled, electrified from the contact, the lavishing adoration present in every golden drop of their kiss.

Honeyed fingers threaded between mahogany curls, twisting, clinging, pulling shocked sounds of approval from the detective. Pale palms coasted over plum wool, stroking lean sides, padded ribs, and an exposed, weathered clavicle with feather-light digits. The warm shock of John’s bare skin - his taut muscle and bone - beneath his own touch sent fresh sparks through his veins, pumping through the valves of his heart, carrying adrenaline and crystalline adoration through his body. He needed more.

John leaned into his exploration, fingers pressing deep against his over-sensitive scalp, and slipping his tongue delicately over the parted seam between Sherlock’s lips. More was wanted by the doctor, too, a reciprocated idea, a  _ need _ . The thought was positively-dizzying, pushing his pulse to react with enthusiasm. Sherlock let John slip into his mouth, an inhuman sound immediately reverberating against the doctor, who groaned in response, stroking Sherlock’s tongue in earnest. He lavished in every touch, every press of flesh against his own, every guiding digit bringing him closer, letting his mouth, lungs, skin devour, explore. Drowning with each spark of contact, he sank. 

 

* * *

  
  


John’s lips met his at every chance. They teased, tasted, parted; a delicacy Sherlock found himself chasing in nap-inducing and adrenaline-filled cabs, before parting for Bart’s or the clinic, over breakfasts, between landings and doorsteps. He carried lip-balm with him - a newfound necessity - tucked neatly in his coat’s pocket next to wrinkled receipts and his miniature magnifying glass, and kept several tins and sticks throughout the flat. He found John’s favourite to be a coconut-fig mixture, which the doctor thoroughly enjoyed rendering completely useless after application. Within a week, Sherlock ordered three new sticks, and kept them next to John’s drug-store hair products in their medicine cabinet. 

Even with as much kissing ensued in the following weeks of their confessions, little was initiated by the detective himself. He found the affections distributed by John perfectly acceptable (‘like no other sensation known to man’, he’d jotted down in the small journal next to his own descriptions of the Garridebs case) and found the doctor thoroughly enjoyed watching him inch closer, wet his lips, and look at him with the sultriest, poutiest expression he could muster. A bat of the eyelashes almost-always ensured a lavish tongue swipe at first contact. This tactic proved to allow the doctor to take the lead, which he found completely necessary.

John was the first to initiate a kiss to the public eye - that being, obviously, Mrs. Hudson. Passed out, completely tangled within confines of cloth, limbs, and a near-toddler, they were caught by the break of dawn and a soft, familiar knock.

“Boys, I’ve got tea and those scones you ate up last week, don’t forget about - ” Without a glance to the living room, the landlady carried a tin tray into the kitchen, pushing aside flasks and beakers without much care and a disappointed sag of her cardigan-clad shoulders. Sherlock blinked sleep away from his eyes, attempting a mumble of greeting,when a gracious snore drew both his and Mrs. Hudson’s gaze to the sleeping doctor.

John’s arm stayed linked across Sherlock’s shoulder, his free hand resting defensively on Rosie’s small back, cheek buried deep in moussed curls. Sherlock smiled, closing his eyes once again, covering John’s hand with his own to reassure Rosie of their safety as she snuffled against his chest. 

“Oh - oh, Sherlock, I have to get a picture. I know you won’t want that, but I just  _ have  _ to have this framed, on our next Christmas cards -” The landlady bustled out of the flat, voice carrying up the stairwell. She returned moments later, bringing Sherlock back to the present, and pushing him further against John’s shoulder, nose brushing his neck. The doctor let out another sound, something warm and pleased that vibrated down Sherlock’s own spine. He hummed in return. 

“Mrs. Hudson… If you would be so kind…” His mind clouded, sleep tugging him back down, “...as to either leave or hurry up… we would be quite…  _ mmm  _ \- grateful.” John’s fingers tangled loosely in his curls. Mrs. Hudson’s phone clicked once, twice. John groaned.

“Of course, Sherlock,” she said softly, “Now - you’ve got a meeting with Greg in an hour, alright? Eat your scones -”

“An hour? Christ…” John was sitting up, sighing as he looked down at Rosie dozing. Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes in the most dramatic fashion his addled brain could handle.

“And we could’ve ignored it, had our scones not been more important -”

“Sherlock, watch it,” the doctor quipped, easing Rosie into his arms. He shot the detective a look, how rolled off the sofa and nearly-stomped into the kitchen, picking up a scone and moving to work at his microscope. “Right. Will you at least help me put Rosie down?”

“John, I can get her,” Mrs. Hudson interjected. A floorboard squeaked as she moved towards the doctor. 

“No, it’s not -” John cut himself off. “Mrs. Hudson, did you take photos of us?” Sherlock’s cheeks twinged with a sudden smile. 

“I said it was fine.” Sherlock turned to glance back over his shoulder, scone abandoned beside a pan of beetle pinchers. “You were… rather enticing, as it was. I should not have to remind you of your natural advantages.” 

John grinned. His eyes sparkled, reflecting the golden light seeping into the flat beautifully. In a moment, Rosie was passed to the landlady, and warm lips were on his, hand crumpling his shirt expertly, drawing his mouth open. 

A wet sniffle brought them apart a moment later, John nipping Sherlock’s lip one last, exhilarating time, before turning back to the landlady, whose cheeks were wet with tears. 

“Mrs. Hudson?” Both men were on her within a moment, John scooping Rosie back up, ignoring her protests as Sherlock quickly handed over a bundle of napkins. 

“Oh - oh, I must look a bloody fool to you both!” She cried, wrapping her arms around them both in a warm, lemon-scone-sweet hug. “And I’m the one who called it first!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait! Thank you all for the kind words, as always; I tried to bust this one out, and I'm sorry for the tooth-aching fluff, but I hope a couple of the details made up for it.
> 
> John's favourite lip-balm of Sherlock's (I had so much fun looking at lip-balms I will never be able to afford or even use freely!): https://www.pharmaca.com/vapour-organic-beauty-lux-lip-conditioner-0-14oz?gclid=CjwKCAjw7cDaBRBtEiwAsxprXSW9zL9fbt-H72FDJ4ngSezxdurFOs-gD3E3KbzenMCx53d0qKcnQhoCBpAQAvD_BwE
> 
> The 'natural advantages' quote is a reference to one from 'The Retired Colourman' (he's basically calling Watson irresistible... if that wasn't obvious): https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/d/doyle/arthur_conan/d75ca/chapter12.html ("With your natural advantages, Watson, every lady is your helper and accomplice.")
> 
> The next chapter will... speed things up!


	23. Finalem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here can be found the works of Dr. John Watson-Holmes and Consulting Detective, Mr. Sherlock Watson-Holmes, partners against the rest of the world.

**_XXIII_ **

 

Golden, heaven-sent morning light dripping over warm sheets became synonymous with his love for John Watson. As did arms as strong as heartstrings holding him close, unravelling the trauma, the pain, the struggle, to welcome him to the home he’d spent so long searching for, telling himself he didn’t deserve, didn’t need. The pull of his nerves to touch, and the relief of being allowed to indulge, relish, savour attached to the doctor, his now-fading jumpers and tightening jeans. The happiness between them, within the cracks of 221B’s floorboards, the overused beakers, and the scattered toys atop case files resided within Sherlock Holmes as the most beautiful, marvelous thing he had ever known - ‘infinitely the most important, infinitely the most loved’, as he’d written on the comments of John’s blog update.

John’s blog lost several readers, some of whom sent nasty letters to their doorstep and emails, but gained many more, even with the constant update on Sherlock’s baking ability (‘It’s just chemistry, how difficult can it be? Yes, I added the eggs, John, I’m not a complete idiot!’) and Rosie’s growth.

The last update took place in a sweltering spring, titled ‘The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot’ - ‘There’s hardly magic at work, John! It was a person, your audience should not be that daft after years of reading about our work. Simply put the poison’s Latin name.’ - and conceded with the mention of two separate blogs being abandoned and replaced with a single, coordinated site, in which Sherlock published his findings, and John wrote about their cases.

The blog was kept-up with through their retirement, continuously posting bee-boxes and jams for sale, occasionally reviewing old cases, and sometimes, even at the hand of Sherlock, posting new cases. Through the years, a single description box added onto the main page at development stayed put, as firm as the love carried into the countryside from London, and unyielding to any further shift, containing the following script:

  
_ Here can be found the works of Dr. John Watson-Holmes and Consulting Detective, Mr. Sherlock Watson-Holmes, partners against the rest of the world. _

 

* * *

 

 

_ ‘ _ _ Here dwell together still two men of note _

_ Who never lived and so can never die: _

_ How very near they seem, yet how remote _

_ That age before the world went all awry. _

_ But still the game’s afoot for those with ears _

_ Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo: _

_ England is England yet, for all our fears– _

_ Only those things the heart believes are true. _

__

_ A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane _

_ As night descends upon this fabled street: _

_ A lonely hansom splashes through the rain, _

_ The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet. _

_ Here, though the world explode, these two survive, _

_ And it is always eighteen ninety-five.’ _

_ \- Vincent Starrett, “221B” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End! Finally - only took me an eternity!
> 
> I hope this was at least a little bit worth the wait <33 thank you all for your kind comments. There will be an epilogue, or, rather, a chapter containing actions spoken outside of the blog (and it's already half-written) ;)
> 
> Thank you all, again!


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